Only when he grew up did he understand what his upbringing had done to him. Instead of a man’s soul, he had developed a cockroach’s antennae inside him. What did this man think of the way he dressed? What did that man think of his politics? The way he pronounced English? Wherever he went, the opinions of the five or six people living near him became a picket fence around Ibrahim Kudwa. One day when he was fifteen or sixteen years old, playing cricket with his neighbours, he had chased the ball until it fell into a gutter. Black, fibrous, stinking, that swampy gutter was the worst thing he had ever seen in his life. But he knew his neighbours wanted him to get that ball; pressed down by their expectations, he had dipped his hands into the muck, up to the elbow, to find the ball. When it came out, his arm was green and black and smelled like rotten eggs. Ibrahim showed the dirty ball to the other boys, then turned around and tossed it back into the gutter; he never played cricket with them again.
Each time he detected the ingratiating impulse within him, he became rude, and from this he earned a reputation in his university years for being woman-like in his mood swings. When he married Mumtaz, he thought: I have found my centre, this girl will make me strong. But the shy dentist’s assistant had not been that kind of wife: she cried by herself when she was unhappy. She refused to steady his hand. Sometimes Ibrahim Kudwa wanted to abandon everything – even Mariam – and run away to Ladakh and live with those Tibetan monks he had seen on his recent holiday.
He looked at the document that Mrs Puri and Ajwani had brought for him, but he would not touch it.
‘Just three, four months ago you were calling him an English gentleman. Yes, you, Sangeeta-ji. And now…’
‘Ibrahim, do you know what the Kala Paani is?’ Ajwani asked. ‘That’s what they called the ocean in the old days. Black water. Hindus weren’t allowed to sail on the Kala Paani. That is what kept us backward. Fear. All of us are now at the Kala Paani. We have to cross it, or we’ll be stuck in Vishram Society for the rest of our lives.’
‘Theft,’ Kudwa whispered. ‘You’re asking me to approve of theft.’
‘It is not theft. I’m telling you, Ibrahim, because I know what it is to steal. I am not a good man like you are. I tell you: this is not theft.’
Kudwa slapped the table, startling Mariam, who began crying.
His visitors got up; Kudwa consoled his child. When they had reached the door, he thought he heard Ajwani whisper: ‘… so typical of his community.’
He could hear Mrs Puri whisper back: ‘… do you mean?’
He saw Ajwani at the door, playing with the white cat, and speaking to Mrs Puri, who was hidden behind the banyan tree.
‘Do they join the army? The police? Zero national spirit. Zero.’
Kudwa could barely breathe.
‘Why bring in religion, Ajwani?’ Mrs Puri asked from behind the tree. ‘He has been in Vishram for ten years… well, nine…’
The broker pressed the white cat with his shoe; it curled itself helplessly around his foot.
‘It is time to say it, Mrs Puri. If he were a Christian, a Parsi, a Sikh, even a Jain – he would have agreed to this.’
And then the two voices faded away.
Kudwa closed his eyes; he patted his daughter.
Did Ajwani think he could not see through his plan? Mrs Puri was in it, too. They had probably rehearsed that speech before coming into his café. Next they would be teasing him for his dandruff. But it would not work. Would not. With his left hand he brushed at his shoulders.
He tried to break into his neighbours’ minds. Did Ajwani not see that expulsion would boomerang on them? This new tactic would only harden Masterji.
But maybe Ajwani wanted things to go wrong.
Kudwa had heard the rumour that the broker had been promised a ‘sweetener’ by Mr Shah. Maybe the worse things became at Vishram, the higher Ajwani’s price would climb. The web was so complex now. Kudwa saw intentions buried in intentions within Vishram Society, and was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice when the white cat came into the office, climbed up on his table, and almost scratched Mariam’s face.
17 AUGUST
A man in danger must follow a routine.
Masterji now went out only twice a day. Morning for milk, evening for bread. In public he kept close to the crowd; every ten steps or so he turned around and checked behind him.
He gave in to an afternoon nap. In the evenings, in the dark, he could summon the memory of Purnima if he stood in front of the almirah breathing in the camphor and her old sari. But the afternoons were bright and difficult; the world outside beckoned to him. A regular nap helped him pass the time.
This afternoon, however, he had had a nightmare. He had been dreaming of Purnima’s brothers.
Waking in the dim evening, he limped to the basin in the living room. He struck the tap with the heel of his palm.
He stared at the dry tap, and felt there was nothing strong inside him at that moment.
Closing his eyes he thought of a full moon he had seen many years ago, during a week-long holiday in Simla, up in the Himalayas, just a few months before his marriage. He had stayed in a cheap hotel; one night the moonlight was so powerful it had woken him up. When he went outside, the cold sky above the mountains was filled with a bigger and brighter moon than he had ever seen before. A voice had whispered, as if from the heavens: ‘Your future will be an important one.’
He drew a circle in the dry basin.
He walked to the threshold of the toilet and stopped: black ants were crawling over the tiled floor. Placing his hands on the doorframe, he leaned in. At the base of the toilet bowl, the black things had lined up like animals at a trough.
Could there be any question now? They had come for the sugar in his urine. He could hear Purnima’s voice pleading with him: ‘You have to get yourself checked. Tomorrow.’
He went to the kitchen, and counted off on her calendar. Forty-seven days to go. With his finger on the circled date, he said, aloud, so it would reach her clearly: ‘If I go for a check-up and they say I have diabetes, it will weaken me, Purnima. I won’t go until 3 October.’
He went back to the toilet to flush the ants away. But no water flowed from the tap here, either.
He flicked the light switch: the lamp above the toilet basin did not respond.
Opening his door, he found that the doorbell to 3B rang clearly; below him, he could hear Nina, the Pintos’ maid, running water from their taps.
The mystery was solved when he went down the stairs to the noticeboard.
NOTICE
Vishram Co-operative Hsg Society Ltd, ‘A’ Building Minutes of the general body meeting of ‘a’ building held on 16 august
Theme: Expulsion of a member from Society
As the quorum was sufficient, the meeting commenced as per schedule at approximately 7.30 p.m.
Mr Ramesh Ajwani (2C) took the chair and brought the members’ concerns to the fore.
ITEM NO. 1 OF THE AGENDA:
As noted in Section 35 Expulsion of Members, Maharashtra Co-operative Societies Act, 1960, and in conjunction with Byelaws 51 through 56 of the Model Bye-laws, it being noted that a society may, by resolution passed by a majority of not less than three-fourths of the members entitled to vote…
… or has used his flat for immoral purposes or misused it for illegal purposes habitually.
On these grounds, it was proposed by Mr Ajwani that Yogesh Murthy, of 3A (formerly known as ‘Masterji’) be expelled from the Society; as he has not paid his dues with regularity, and has engaged on questionable, and immoral, activities within his premises.
Ibrahim Kudwa (4C) seconded the proposal.
Despite repeated requests – and his door being knocked on, several times – Mr Murthy did not agree to defend himself in front of the Society.
It was unanimously agreed to approve of the resolution, expelling Mr Murthy from the Society, and asking him to vacate his premises within thirty days…
… the meeting
concluded at about 8.30 p.m. with a vote of thanks to the chair.
The full list of members’ signatures is attached. Fourteen of the sixteen shareholders in the Society have signed the form.
Copy (1) To Members of ‘A’ Building, Vishram Co-op Hsg Society Ltd
Copy (2) To Mr Ashvin Kothari, the Secretary, Vishram Co-op Hsg Society Ltd
Copy (3) To the Registrar of Housing Societies, Mumbai
*
He lay in the dark; feeling the weight of two floors of people above and three below who had expelled him from his home of thirty-two years; who do not even consider him a human any longer – one that needs light and water.
He had called Parekh at once.
‘This is utterly number two,’ the lawyer said. ‘Point one. Expulsion from a Society is a grave matter – the taking away of a fundamental right to housing – and enforceable only on criminals and pornographers. The Registrar of Housing will not permit it in the case of a distinguished teacher. Point two.’ The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘Point two. Under Essential Commodities Act 1955, cutting off water or electricity without court order is a criminal offence. The Secretary of your building can be sent to jail. I will dictate a note, which you should give to the said Secretary.’
‘Let me find a pen, Mr Parekh.’
‘Give me this number two Secretary’s number,’ the lawyer said, ‘and I will call him myself. I deal with a baker’s dozen of corrupt Secretaries every day.’
At the start of summer, there had been talk of power cuts in Mumbai, and in anticipation, he had bought candles. One of them sat burning on the teakwood table. The wax dripped; the blackened wick was exposed. He thought of Purnima’s body blackening on her funeral pyre. He thought of Galileo’s framed picture over his mirror.
He held up his fist; in the weak light of the candle it cast a shadow on the wall. The earth, in infinite space. A point on it was the city of Mumbai. A point on that was Vishram Society. And that point was his.
His arm began to tremble, but he did not unclench his fist.
Suddenly the lights came back on. The water was running in the basin. He flushed the toilet clean of the black ants and washed his hands, saying, as he did so, the magic mantra, Mofa, Mofa.
Mr Parekh had done it again.
BOOK SEVEN
Last Man in Tower
2 SEPTEMBER
Shanmugham loved, more than any other part of the city he lived in, this drive over the Bandra bridge. At night, with the water in the Mahim creek glossy black, the glowing signs of the Lilavati Hospital ahead, the square lights of the slums puncturing the darkness below him, it was like gliding over a film set.
Now, in the late afternoon, he saw the hazy blue piers of the half-built Worli SeaLink, standing in the distant water like a bridge from this world to the next. Sweat dripped from his helmet into his eyes and burned them.
He dreamed of orange juice served on crushed ice with lots of sugar and a sprinkling of red masala powder on top. He hoped he would find a fresh-juice stand close to the lawyer’s office.
Parking his bike near the train station, he removed his helmet and gave his hair a good shake, scattering sweatdrops around him like a dog that has taken a bath.
Among the ramshackle buildings by the train station he searched for the lawyer’s office. The glint of an open razor in a barber’s shop caught his eye. Famous Hair Cutting Palace. This was the landmark near the office.
He waited on the other side of the road.
Next to him, a man stood in a wooden booth surrounded by tomatoes, cucumbers, and boiled potatoes in buckets of water. With stacks of white bread and a bowl of butter on his table, he sliced the vegetables fine. A series of cardboard signs in English hung by thread from the ceiling of the little booth:
DO NOT ASK FOR CREDIT
DO NOT DISCUSS OUR COMPETITORS RATE
DO NOT ASK FOR FREE PLASTIC BAG
DO NOT ASK FOR EXTRA TOMATO SAUCE
DO NOT STAY FOR LONG TIME AFTER EATING
Shanmugham looked with envy at all those interdictions. The sandwich-maker might be a poor man, but he could lay down his own law.
But me, I have to do what the boss says. He throws the stick, I have to catch.
He wondered if he should get a quick toast sandwich.
An old man with an umbrella and a slight limp in his left leg went past the Famous Hair Cutting Palace, and turned into the building next door. Shanmugham stopped thinking about food.
A milky lunette let grey light into the stairwell of the Loyola Trust Building; a pigeon was thrashing its wings on the other side.
Masterji stopped on his way up to his lawyer’s office to kick the pain out of his left leg. He looked at the restless silhouette of the bird. He thought: Where did the rains go?
Taking out his handkerchief, he patted his moustache, which was soaking wet, and put the damp cloth back in his pocket.
The anaemic Ganesha sat in its dim niche on the landing. The small votive oil lamp added burnt fuel to the smell of meat curry. The four khaki-clad security guards were once again playing cards beneath the idol of the Ganesha. Their chappals, shoes, and socks napped together in a heap by the wall.
Within the Milky Way of the city, you can sometimes recognize an autonomous solar system: like these men playing their card games in near silence on this dim landing, breaking only to eat lunch or replace the wick of the oil lamp. Rich they would never be, but they had this eternal card-and-companionship afternoon. Masterji wondered, as he walked around the guards’ hands and feet, which looked like another set of cards placed on the ground, if they maintained a No-Argument book here.
PAREKH AND SONS ADVOCATE ‘LEGAL HAWK WITH SOUL & CONSCIENCE’
The courtesy in the lawyer’s office was much improved this time. The peon with the red pencil behind his ear smiled and said: ‘I’ll on the air-conditioner, sir, you’re sweating. The worst time of the year, isn’t it? The rains stop and it’s the middle of summer again.’ He took Masterji’s black umbrella, gave it a shake, and placed it in a green plastic bucket with umbrellas of other colours.
A glass of water arrived on a brown tray; the peon bowed before Masterji.
‘I’ve brought you the coldest glass of water in Mumbai city, sir. Cold-est.’
Is he expecting a tip for this? Other petty workers, going about the office with their files, smiled at Masterji. He remembered the feeling – which he had had once at the Vakola market – of being mistaken for a millionaire. Sipping the ice-cold water, he considered the mystery of his situation, when the peon said: ‘You can go in to see Mr Parekh, sir.’
Head down, Parekh was on his mobile phone, the three silver strands over his bald head shining in the light. The gold medallion was tucked into his shirt, and bulged between the second and third button.
Parekh looked up, and stared through his thick glasses at Masterji, who had decided to sit down.
‘You phoned me, Mr Parekh. You said there was good news and I should come to see you before noon.’
Nodding, as if he remembered now, the lawyer summoned his mucus and discharged it into the spittoon.
‘You are not my only client, Masterji. I am at any given moment fighting a baker’s dozen of slum rats.’
Masterji, appropriately chastened, nodded. A peon came in with tea for the lawyer. Some minutes passed like this, with Parekh reading a typewritten letter and squinting at his mobile phone each time a text message arrived with a loud chime. Feet thumped on the low ceiling. The cracks in the wooden planks expanded.
The door to the office opened, and an assistant – or was it his son? – approached the lawyer. Parekh took a document from him, squinted, and threw it back at him.
‘This is not the right good news. Not relevant to Masterji’s case.’
The assistant left; Masterji waited; feet moved across the ceiling.
‘One thing has to be confessed, Masterji,’ Parekh said. ‘I had doubts: that night when they cut off the power, for instance. Or when
your copetitioner, that Mr Pinto, was threatened. But you have stayed true. You have proved yourself sovereign of your plot of earth.’
Masterji nodded. ‘Men of our generation, we have seen much trouble. Wars, emergencies, elections. We can survive.’
‘True,’ Parekh said. ‘Men of a certain generation, you and I are.’
The assistant reappeared in a few minutes with another document; and this time, the old teacher knew it was relevant to his case. Parekh looked at Masterji; his browless eyes sparkled.
‘The good news is a sizeable one.’
Masterji smiled. ‘What is the good news?’
Still flipping through the pages of the document, Parekh said: ‘A settlement. It will be a famous settlement. Shah versus Murthy.’
‘But who has given me this settlement?’
Mr Parekh turned to his assistant or son, as if in appreciation of this joke.
‘Oh, Masterji,’ he said. ‘The builder, of course. And in fact – between us, Masterji – we have fooled Mr Shah.’ He wiped his lips. ‘Because you had a weak case to begin with. We can say it openly now.’
‘A weak case?’
‘Of course.’
Masterji turned from Parekh to the other, and back to Parekh.
‘How can you make a settlement without speaking to me? I have the share certificate: I own my flat.’
Parekh smiled sadly. ‘No, sir. You don’t. Fundamentally speaking, sir, neither you nor any member of any registered co-operative housing society anywhere in this state is the proprietor, strictly speaking, of his or her flat. Your Society is the sovereign of your flat. You own a share certificate in that Society. If the Society decides to sell your flat, you have no right to dissent. Regarding which…’ He turned to clear his throat. The son or assistant recited: ‘Dhiraj T. Kantaria and others versus Municipal Corporation and Co., 2001 (3) Bom. C.R. 664; 2002 (5) Mh. L.J. 779; 2004 (6) LJSOFT 42.’
Last Man in Tower Page 27
