Last Man in Tower (27 page)

6 AUGUST

In the wild, rain-wet grass outside the Speed-Tek Cyber Café, a white cat, rearing up, slashed at a russet butterfly just beyond its reach.

There was only one customer inside the café: hunched over terminal number six, emitting chuckles. Ibrahim Kudwa, sitting with little Mariam at the proprietor’s desk, wondered if it was time to make a surprise inspection of the chuckling customer’s terminal.

‘Ibby. Pay attention.’

Ajwani and Mrs Puri had been in the café for several minutes now.

Mrs Puri put her forearms on the table and pushed the piece of paper towards him.

‘All the others have agreed, except for you.’

To free Ibrahim’s arms, she asked for Mariam, who was wearing her usual striped green nightie.

‘My wife says I have a high ratio of nerves to flesh,’ Kudwa said, as he handed Mariam over to Mrs Puri. ‘I should never be asked to make decisions.’

‘A simple thing, this is,’ Ajwani said. ‘In extreme cases, a Housing Society may expel a member and purchase his share certificate in the Society. It’s perfectly legal.’

Ibrahim Kudwa’s arms were free: yet he would not touch the piece of paper lying before him.

‘How do you know? Are you a lawyer?’

Ajwani moved his neck from side to side and then he said: ‘Shanmugham told me.’

With Mariam in her hands, Mrs Puri glared at Ajwani. But it was too late.

‘And
he’s
an expert?’ Kudwa’s upper lip twitched. ‘I don’t like that man, I don’t like his face. I wish we had never been picked by that builder. We are not good enough to say no to his money, and not bad enough to say yes to what he wants us to do for it.’

‘Money is not the issue here, Ibby. It is the
principle
. We cannot let one man bully us.’

‘True, Sangeeta-ji, true,’ Kudwa said, looking at the ventilator of the cyber-café. ‘I teach both my sons that. Hold your head up high in life.’

Putting a finger to his lips, he got up from his chair, and tiptoed over to his customer at terminal six.

Pulling the customer from his seat, Kudwa dragged him to the door of the café, and shoved him out; the white cat meowed.

‘I don’t want your money, fine. Get out!’ he shouted. ‘This is not a dirty shop.’

‘Typical.’ He wiped his forehead and sat down. ‘Leave them alone for five minutes, and there’s no saying
what
they download. And if the police come here, who will they arrest for pornography? Not
him
.’

‘Listen, Ibrahim,’ the broker said. ‘I have always fought oppression. In 1965, when Prime Minister Shastri asked us to sacrifice a meal a day to defeat the Pakistanis – I did so. I was eight years old and gave up my food for my country.’

Kudwa said: ‘I was only
seven
years old. I gave up dinner when my father asked. All of us sacrificed that meal in 1965, Ramesh, not just you.’ He ran his fingers through his beard while shaking his head: ‘You want to throw an old man out of his home.’

Ajwani took Mariam from Mrs Puri; he gave the girl a good shake.

‘Ibrahim.’

‘Yes?’

‘You have seen how a cow turns its eyes to the side when it shits, and pretends not to know what it’s doing? Masterji knows exactly what he’s doing to us, and he’s
enjoying
it. Repressed, depressed, and dangerous: that’s your beloved Masterji in a nutshell.’

Mrs Puri slid the paper across the table, closer to Kudwa.

‘Ibby. Please listen to me. Masterji knows the builder can’t touch him now. The police are watching Vishram. This is the only way out.’

Kudwa put on his reading glasses. He picked up the paper and read:

… as per the Maharashtra Co-operative Societies Act, 1960, Section 35, Expulsion of Members, and also points 51 through 56 of the Model Bye-laws, a member may be expelled from his Society if he:

1. Has persistently failed in payment of his dues to the Society

2. Has wilfully deceived his Society by giving false information

3. Has used his flat for immoral purposes or misused it for illegal purposes habitually

4. Has been in habit of committing breaches of any of the provisions of the bye-laws of his Society, which in the opinion of the fellow members of his Society are serious breaches

Kudwa removed his glasses. ‘He hasn’t done any of these things.’

Mrs Puri, her mouth open, turned to Ajwani.

‘Hasn’t? Didn’t he say he would sign the form and change his mind? Isn’t that deceiving his Society? Hasn’t he invited the police into our gates? And the things that Mary has seen in his rubbish, tell him, Ajwani, tell him…’

The broker tickled little Mariam’s belly rather than describe those things.

Kudwa took his daughter back.

‘I want to please you by saying yes to this. This is my weakness. I wanted to please my friends in college, so I joined the rock-and-roll band. I send my boy to tae kwon-do because you wanted someone your boys could practise with. I want to please my neighbours who think of me as a fair-minded man, so I pretend to be one.’

Ibrahim Kudwa closed his eyes. He held Mariam close to him.

He wanted to tell her how different his early life had been from what hers would be.

His father had set up and closed hardware shops in city after city, in the north and south of India alike, before settling in Mumbai when his son was fourteen. The boy had never been anywhere long enough to make friends. From his mother he learned something better than having friends – how to sit in a darkened room and consume the hours. When she closed the door to her bedroom she slipped into another world; he did the same in his. Then the doorbell would ring, and they came out running into the real world together. Visitors, relatives, neighbours: he saw his mother bribe these people with smiles and sweet words, so they would let her return, for a few hours each day, into her private kingdom.

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.