The vapours of mothballs, old newspaper, and silk sari made him drowsy.
Instead of the image of his wife’s soul, Masterji saw himself, with the body of an eagle, flying over an ocean: as if his own death, and subsequent trial, had already begun.
When he heard a loud, steady knocking on the door, his first thought was that it must be a summoner come to take him to his trial.
He opened the door to find Mr Pinto.
‘Why didn’t you ring?’
‘It’s not working—’ Mr Pinto pressed the bell to prove it.
Now Masterji was conscious of voices in the compound, and feet in the stairwell. From the compound, he could hear the Battleship shouting: ‘Illusion! Illusion!’
The two old men went down the stairs, to the noticeboard, where half a dozen people had gathered. Masterji saw Ibrahim Kudwa, his wife Mumtaz, Mrs Saldanha, her daughter Radhika, and Mrs Abichandani from the first floor, along with the Secretary, who was saying, ‘How could I tell anyone sooner? I found out only this evening.’
Masterji asked in a soft voice that people move to the side, until he was close enough to read the notice pinned on the central panel.
General Offer of Redevelopment: To Vishram Societies, A and B. Proposal Made by Confidence Group (Headquarters Navnirman Building, Parel, Mumbai).
Attention: Secretaries, Society A and B, and all residents
In consideration of the proposed development of a new super-luxury residential project on the current site of the Vishram Societies A and B, the Confidence Group makes an offer to the Vishram Societies (A and B Tower) for the outright purchase of all flats in the said Societies on the following basis:
It being noted that the two Societies consist of apartments, both one-bedroom and two-bedroom, ranging in size from 450 square feet to 950 square feet, and of an average size of 790 square feet; also that the prevailing rate in Vakola is of the range of Rs 8,000 to 12,000 a square foot, which may even be lower in the case of a building of the age and condition of Vishram Society, a generous offer is made to all owners at the uniform rate of Rs 19,000 a square foot.
For instance, an owner of a flat of size 800 square foot will receive a payment of 1.52 crore (1,52,00,000) rupees before tax. This is opposed to a market-rate of likely 60 to 70 lakhs (60,00,000 to 70,00,000) maximum, and that too only after the residents have paid for the repair, repainting, etc of flat and Society. Numerous other financial and tax advantages to the offer will be stated by the Managing Director of Confidence Group, Mr Dharmen Shah, when he comes in person to your Society to address the residents.
If the residents accept this generous offer, the said sum is payable in three instalments. One instalment upon your signing the agreement, one upon the vacating of the building, and one payable within three months into the nominated bank account. In addition, eight weeks’ rent, calculated on the basis of average rental rates in the Vakola area for a decent-quality two-bedroom flat, will be paid to each family, so they can stay nearby while they search for a new home. All payments will be made by cheque. Nominated Accounts may be in any nationalized bank (likes of Corporation Bank, Punjab National Bank etc.) or recognized and reputable private bank (likes of HSBC, HDFC, Karur Vysya, etc.). Please check with Builder for list of acceptable banks.
About the Confidence Group: Our motto is: ‘From my family to yours.’ Founded in 1978, we are one of Mumbai’s leading developers, with new projects also under development in Thane and Pune. MD of the Confidence Group, Mr Shah, is the recipient of numerous gold medals and paper-based awards for excellence. He has been cited by the Rotary Club for his charitable contributions and philanthropic vision of humanity. A family man at heart, he avoids the high society and glamorous life and concentrates on the quality of his work and accomplishments. He is also passionate about chess and carom. You may visit his numerous projects and accomplishments via the prospectus of Confidence Group, which has been left with the Secretaries of the Societies.
Important: The last date for the acceptance of the offer is the day after Gandhi Jayanti: 3 October. (Non-negotiable.) The offer will not be extended one minute beyond this date.
BOOK TWO
Mr Shah Explains His Proposal
14 MAY
Yawning as he emerged from the car park of the Mirchandani Manor, Shanmugham walked out of the gate – the security guard, unsure whether this was a servant or friend of Mr Shah, stood up without saluting – and went down wide stone steps, passing old men doing stretching exercises, until he stood on fresh, clean sand.
Versova beach. He took a deep breath of early-morning ocean breeze. A few fishing boats were out on the ocean; he turned to the north to see the coconut palms in faraway Madh Island. Stretching his neck and raising his arms over his head he turned to the other side of the beach: and flinched.
He had forgotten about Versova in the mornings.
Here, in this beach in this posh northern suburb of Mumbai, half the sand was reserved for the rich, who defecated in their towers, the other half for slum dwellers, who did so near the waves. Residents of the slum that had encroached upon the beach were squatting by the water, defecating.
An invisible line went down the middle of the beach like an electrified fence; beyond this line, the bankers, models, and film producers of Versova were engaged in tai-chi, yoga, or spot-jogging. Behind the exercising crowd, a woman in a billowing red dress posed against rocks as a photographer snapped. Large silver-foiled boards held up around the model reflected light on to her body; and she forced her rouged face into another smile for the cameras. Homeless men stood in a semi-circle round the photo-shoot, from where they passed loud and accurate judgement on the model’s physique and posing skills.
Looking at the long waxed limbs that showed through the flutter of red cloth, Shanmugham sat, precariously, on two rocks.
He turned around to look at the Mirchandani Manor, which stood on a rocky embankment behind him: sleek, beige-coloured, with a pointed gable. The curtain was still drawn at the seventh-floor window. He had received a text message from the boss at 6.30 a.m.: he assumed that they would be leaving for Vishram by nine.
Good.
Mr Shah should have been there when the offer was made yesterday, shown his teeth, gained their trust, seduced them with smiles and handshakes, done the politician’s number with their babies, and left with a bow and a quotation from a holy book. That was how it had always been done until now. Delay, and lawyers and NGOs smell you out; the vultures swoop lower.
But look at the boss, locked up here in Versova, his other home, all of last evening and night. Just because that astrologer in Matunga had told him that yesterday evening, while auspicious for the offer to be presented, was inauspicious for a personal visit. The boss was growing more and more superstitious: no question of that. A year or two ago he would have insisted that the stars give him better times. Or perhaps it was not those stars, but the fading one on the seventh floor of the Mirchandani Manor that was keeping Mr Shah here – the Versova property inside the Versova property. Shanmugham, a married man, smirked.
Ah, Versova. The ultimate ‘number two’ suburb of the city. Succeed in Bollywood, and you are probably living in Juhu or in Bandra: fail, and you leave; but if you have neither succeeded nor failed, just survived in that grey, ambiguous, ‘number two’ way, you end up here.
Mr Shah was human. He had his physical needs. That Shanmugham understood.
He just wished the boss would not keep him in the dark about his astrological appointments – he had no idea if the astrologer had nominated morning, or evening, or night, as the time for them to go to Vishram. Until the time came, he was expected to stay close to the Manor.
One of the silver foils reflecting sunlight on the model had been sponsored by a bank; on the back, bold red lettering announced:
8.75% COMPOUNDED CANARA CO-OPERATIVE BANK 365 DAYS FIXED DEPOSIT NO PENALTY WITHDRAWAL APPLY NOW!
Shanmugham went closer, was shooed away by the model’s minders, smil
ed, and hurried back to the rocks.
On his way up in life, he had discovered petty finance like other men discover cocaine. He subscribed to the Economic Times; watched CNBC TV; and played with stocks. But he was a married man, with children, and the bulk of his money was locked away in the safety of a bank deposit. 2.8 lakh rupees, in the Rajamani Co-operative Bank, at 8.65 per cent for 400 days. He had been proud of that rate – he had forced his manager to add 0.15 per cent on top of the bank’s normal lending rate.
A helicopter striped the beach with its noisy shadow. Shanmugham, on his knees, did mathematics on hot sand (8.65 per cent as against 8.75 per cent; 400 days as against 365), while the waves creamed on the shore like the extra compound interest he could be making on his principal at the Canara Co-operative Bank.
The ocean breaking below your window; a lizard on the ceiling staring at you with fat envious eyes; and in the next room, a woman, twenty-six years younger, brushing her freshly washed hair and sending waves of strawberry and aloe towards your nostrils.
Dharmen Shah yawned. He saw no reason to get out of his bed.
‘Woke up?’ Rosie called from her room. ‘Come and see what I’ve bought for you, Uncle. A surprise.’
‘Let me sleep, Rosie.’
‘Come.’
She took him by the hand and led him into the living room; there it lay propped against the sofa; a framed three-part poster that showed the Eiffel Tower being erected in stages.
‘For you, Mr Builder. To put up in your office.’
‘Very sweet of you, Rosie,’ Shah said, and put his hand on his heart. He was truly touched, even though the money was his.
‘Eiffel,’ he said, seated at the laminated dining table outside the kitchen, ‘was the same fellow who built the Statue of Liberty. What would we do with him in India? Ask: what is your caste, what is your family, what is your background? Sorry, go away.’
The fat man stretched his hands and flexed his toes. Rosie turned from the kitchen to see him yawning indulgently.
‘Rosie,’ he said. ‘Did I ever tell you that I was my father’s first wife’s son?’
‘No, Uncle. You never tell me about yourself.’
‘They pulled my mother out of a well one day. That is the very first memory I have.’
She came out of the kitchen and wiped her hands.
‘I was four years old. She jumped into the well in our house in Krishnapur.’
‘Why did she do it?’
He shrugged.
‘A year later I had a stepmother. She had four sons. They got all my father’s love. He would not even look at me with kindness. The worst part was this: he made me feel ashamed, Rosie. It was as if my mother’s suicide were my fault. He would glare at me if anyone ever mentioned it.’
‘And then?’
Then came the day he went to his father’s grocery store and asked: ‘May I have a bicycle, Father? It’s my sixteenth birthday’, to be told, ‘No’, even though a younger half-brother had received one. Understanding then that being second-best was what was expected of the sons of a first wife, he left home the next morning with twelve rupees and eighty paise that he had saved up. He walked, took the bus, took the train, ran out of money and walked again, till the sandals had fallen off his feet and he had to tie plantain leaves around them. Reached Bombay. He had never once returned to Krishnapur.
‘Not once?’
‘Why go back? In the village, a man lives as a social animal, Rosie: pleasing his father, grandfather, brothers, cousins. His caste. His community. A man is free here. In the city.’
Rosie waited for more, but he had gone silent; she got up from the table.
‘I’ll bring you the toast in a second, Uncle.’
‘Butter. Lots of it.’
‘Don’t I know? That’s the only thing on earth you love: fresh butter.’
In a little while he was licking butter off triangular pieces of toast at the table. Wiping her hands down the sides of her blue jeans, she watched from the kitchen.
‘Did something happen today, Uncle? You’re very talkative.’
‘Satish is in trouble. The second time this year.’
‘What kind of trouble, Uncle?’
‘Go get me more toast.’
Rosie returned with fresh bread, which she flicked with the back of her fingers on to his plate.
‘The Shanghai, Rosie. Did I tell you that’s the name of my new project?’
‘What happened to Satish, Uncle?’
‘I want to forget about him. I want to talk about my Shanghai.’
‘Bo-ring, Uncle. You know I don’t like construction talk. Some marmalade?’
‘Every man wants to be remembered, Rosie. I’m no different. Once you fall ill, you think about these things. I began as a contractor, then did slum redevelopments because the big developers did not want to get their hands dirty. If I had to kiss this politician’s arse, I did it; if I had to give that one bags of money for his elections, so be it. I climbed. Like a lizard I went up walls that were not mine to go up. I bought a home in Malabar Hill. I taught myself to build in style, Rosie. The Art Deco style of Marine Lines. The Gothic style of VT station. And I will put all the styles into this new one: the Shanghai. When it is done, when they see it, shining and modern, people will understand my life’s story.’
When he got to the city, knowing no one here, he had stood in line outside a Jain temple in Kalbadevi and been fed there twice a day; a store owner pitied his feet and threw him his own chappals; he began working as a delivery boy for that store owner, and within a year he was managing a store himself.
In a socialist economy, the small businessman has to be a thief to prosper. Before he was twenty he was smuggling goods from Dubai and Pakistan. Yes, what compunction did he have about dealing with the enemy, when he was treated as a bastard in his own country? The pirateering felt natural; on the back of trucks marked as ‘emergency wheat supplies’, he shipped in cartons of foreign-made watches and alarm clocks into Gujarat and Bombay. But then the Constitution of India was suspended; the Emergency was imposed – the police given orders to arrest all blackmarketeers, smugglers, and tax-dodgers. Even if you hated that period, you had to admire the guts: the only time when anyone showed any will power in this country. He had to get rid of his black money – Man has risen from the earth, he thought, he may as well put his money back into the earth. A construction company was formed – with an English name, of course: it was part of the new world of talent-and-nothing-else. Smuggling was for small men, he found out; the real money in this world lies on the legitimate side of things. Starting out as a contractor for another builder on Mira Road, he soon realized that much as he loved cement and steel, he loved people more. The human being was his clay to squeeze. Poorer human beings, to begin with. He entered the business of ‘redeveloping’ chawls and slums – buying out the tenants of ageing structures so that skyscrapers and shopping malls could take their place; a task requiring brutality and charm in equal measure, and which proved too subtle for most builders – but one he negotiated with skills from his smuggler years, allying himself with politicians, policemen, and thugs to bribe and bounce people out of their homes. With an instinct for fairness that taught him to prefer (unlike many others in his profession) the use of generosity over violence, he earned a reputation as a man who made other men rich, always preferring to entice a recalcitrant tenant out of a building with a cheque rather than with a knife, and waiting until there was no other option but to order Shanmugham (as he had done in his most recent redevelopment project, in Sion) to go all the way: to shove a man’s head out of a window and indicate that the rest of him would follow in three seconds – unless a signature appeared on the appropriate document. (It did.)
Rosie fed more bread into the toaster. Shah heard the click of the toaster and thought of her with gratitude, bringer of toast and floral perfume into his life, this chubby girl from the provinces – All the way from Ranchi, would you believe it? He licked his fingers
and waited for more bread. How little it takes to be happy in life: soft white beds, buttered toast, and plump young girls, three pleasures that are essentially interchangeable.
In the shower the hot water flowed through gilded fittings; he stood on green onyx and felt the warmth on his scalp.
His wife had died five years ago. After a year in which he kept to himself, he had started taking women to hotel rooms. Then he built his own hotel here, in the seventh floor of this Versova building. Down pillows and cushions, pure white bedsheets of 2.8 micron pore size to repel allergens. Lights that turn themselves on as you clap your hands: so you don’t even have to move from bed. The flat in Malabar Hill was messier, subject to Giri’s crankiness; and it was home, things broke. This place with the sea view had palace-of-sin plushness.
‘How is your spit today, Uncle?’ – Rosie shouted at the bathroom. It was a role every mistress sooner or later took to playing, that of surrogate mother.
‘Clear, Rosie.’
He coughed and spat, then dipped his finger in the spit and inspected it. Last December it had been much darker, and sometimes flecked with red.
Last Man in Tower Page 9
