Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [95]
Shah had been staring at the turrets of the hotel at Land’s End in Bandra. Somewhere beyond it, where the planes were landing, was Santa Cruz. Somewhere in there was Vishram Society Tower A. He saw the building in front of him, dirty, pink, rain-stained. Six floors. He held out his palm and closed his fingers.
Footsteps behind him. Shah turned.
Descending from the rocks behind him, the tall chastened figure of Shanmugham walked onto the beach with a small blue tin in his hands.
“This is for you, sir,” he said, handing it over to Shah.
Rosie, who had seen her Uncle alone down by the beach, had summoned Shanmugham and handed over the blue tin of gutka.
Shah scooped out some gutka, and chewed.
Shanmugham could see the thinking part of his employer, his jaw, struggling to make sense of things.
“I still don’t understand. You and that broker—all you had to do was keep that teacher there till I got back.”
“He became violent, sir. Ask Giri. He hit the tray and then he ran out.”
“I don’t like blaming another man when it’s my fault,” Shah said, chewing fast. “Going to see that headmaster—a total waste of time. What does the man do? Namastes me, says, what an honour to meet you, Developer sir, and then asks for advice on a one-bedroom he is buying in Seven Bungalows. Would the Four Bungalows area be a better investment? Will Andheri East show superior appreciation once the Metro comes up? I should have stayed home and finished off this Vishram Society teacher. My fault. My fault.” He bit his lower lip.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t say sorry, Shanmugham. It is a worthless word. Listen to me: every midget in Mumbai with a mobile phone and a scooter fancies himself a builder. But not one in a hundred is going to make it. Because in this world, there is a line: on one side are the men who cannot get things done, and on the other side are the men who can. And not one in a hundred will cross that line. Will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Shah spat on the beach.
“We have been reasonable in every way with this old teacher. We asked him what he wanted from us, and promised to give it to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now let him find out what it means to want nothing in Mumbai.”
Shanmugham held out his fist to his employer and opened it. “Yes, sir.”
On the way back, the builder stopped to stroke the horse. Ignoring him, the boy whispered into the large pink ear.
“Fellow,” Shah said. “Take this.”
“What’s this for?” The boy did not touch the banknote the stranger offered.
“Because I feel like it.”
The boy shook his head.
“Then take it for keeping your horse in good shape. I like looking at beautiful things.”
Now the boy took the hundred-rupee note.
“Where are you from, son?”
“Madhya Pradesh.”
“How long in Mumbai?”
“Two months. Three months.”
“You shouldn’t spend all your time talking to the horse. You should look around you, at people. Rich people. Successful people. You should always be thinking, what does he have that I don’t have? That way you go up in life. You understand me?”
Stroking the side of the horse, Shah left.
The horse-keeper was still examining his windfall when Shanmugham swooped down on him.
“Give that to me,” he said. The boy shook his head and pressed his face into his horse’s neck.
“The sahib meant to give you a ten-rupee note. He gives money and then he changes his mind; he’ll send someone down to take you to the police.”
The boy considered this, found it believable, and surrendered the gift. Shanmugham exchanged it for a ten-rupee note; then he leapt up the rocks with the spring of a man who has just become ninety rupees richer.
What do you want?
In the continuous market that runs right through southern Mumbai, under banyan trees, on pavements, beneath the arcades of the Gothic buildings, in which food, pirated books, perfumes, wristwatches, meditation beads, and software are sold, one question is repeated, to tourists and locals, in Hindi or in English: What do you want? As you walk down the blue-tarpaulin-covered souk of the Colaba Causeway, pass