That was her abiding memory of the word ‘dollar’. Something that turned into gold.
‘Oh, all that’s changed, Shelley. All that has changed.’
Mr Pinto sat by her bedside and explained. It was all there on the Reserve Bank of India’s website. He had been to Ibrahim Kudwa’s cyber-café a few days ago and had navigated the site with Ibrahim’s kind help.
‘If it is a gift, we can only send out 10,000 dollars per annum. But if it is investment, we can send 100,000 dollars. And soon they may increase the limit to 200,000 dollars each year. It’s perfectly legal.’
The darkness that enveloped Mrs Pinto grew larger. They, from India, would now have to send the children, in America, money?
‘Will Tony have to come back?’
‘He has a Green Card. Don’t be stupid, Shelley. Their children are citizens.’
‘But he has no money?’
‘Things are difficult over there. Deepa may lose her job. I didn’t want to frighten you.’
‘Everything is so expensive in the States. Don’t you remember how much the sandwiches cost? Why did they leave Bombay?’
‘Just tell me how many square feet this place is, woman. Let me worry about things.’
‘812 square feet,’ she said. ‘We had it measured once.’
Mr Pinto sat at the dinner table again and rubbed his pale hands together: ‘I feel young again, Shelley.’ She wondered if he was asking for a resumption in their relations, which had ceased some twenty-seven years ago, but no, of course not, all he meant was this: he was being an accountant again.
‘It would be so simple, Shelley. Two-thirds of the money we send in dollars to the children, and with the rest we buy a small flat right here in Vakola. Nina could come and cook there too.’
‘How can you talk like this, Mr Pinto?’ she said. ‘If Masterji says no, we must say no.’
‘I’m just cal-cu-la-ting, Shelley. He is my friend. Of thirty-two years. I will never betray him for US dollars.’
Mr Pinto walked around the living room, and said: ‘Let us go for our evening walk, Shelley. Exercise is good for the lower organs.’
‘Masterji warned us not to leave the building while he was gone.’
‘I am here to protect you. Don’t you trust your own husband? Masterji is not God. We are going down.’
With her husband behind her, Mrs Pinto descended the steps. Just before she reached the ground floor, something bumped into her side – she knew, from the smell of Johnson’s Baby Powder, who it was.
‘Rajeev!’ Mr Pinto called after Ajwani’s son. ‘This is not a zoo, run slowly.’
‘Don’t fight with anyone today, Mr Pinto,’ she said. ‘Let’s be quiet and stay out of trouble.’
Holding on to each other, they walked out of the darkened entranceway into the sunlight. Mrs Kudwa, seated on the prime chair in parliament, talking to Mrs Saldanha at her kitchen window, was silent as they passed.
The guard was in his booth, keeping a watch on the compound.
Mr Pinto coughed. Smoke billowed in from over the compound wall; gathering the stray leaves from the Society, Mary had set fire to them in the gutter outside. Suspended in a dark cloud, the hibiscus flowers had turned a more passionate red.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine, Shelley. Just a cough.’
Mr Pinto heard singing in the distance: children rehearsing patriotic songs for Independence Day:
‘Saarey jahan se accha
Yeh Hindustan hamara
Hum bulbule hain iski
Yeh gulistan hamara.’
‘Better than all the world
Is this India of ours;
We are its nightingales,
It is our garden.’
A few steps down, he turned to his wife and said: ‘Wait.’
They were in the ‘blood stretch’, and he held his breath. Leaning over the wall, he saw a pack of stray black dogs, down in the gutter, running after a small white-and-brown puppy. It squealed as if this were no game. The four dogs chased it down the length of the gutter. Then all of them vanished.
‘What is happening there, Mr Pinto?’
‘They’re going to kill that little thing, Shelley.’ He paused. ‘It looks like Sylvester.’
The Pintos had once had a dog, Sylvester, for the sake of their son Tony. When Sylvester died, the Society had allowed them to bury him in the backyard so they could be near him as they walked around Vishram.
The squealing noise broke out again from inside the gutter.
The old accountant put his hand on his wife’s back. ‘You walk on along the wall, Shelley; you know the way, don’t you? I have to see what they are doing to that puppy.’
‘But Masterji said not to leave the building till he came back with a lawyer.’
‘I’m going right outside, Shelley. We have to save that little fellow.’
Shelley waited by the wall, holding her breath against the stench from the beef-shop. The squealing from the gutter grew louder, and then died out. She heard footsteps from the other side of the wall. She recognized them as Mr Pinto’s. She heard him lower himself into the gutter.
‘Don’t walk in the gutter, Mr Pinto. Do you hear me?’
Now she heard a second set of footsteps. Younger, faster footsteps.
‘Mr Pinto,’ she called. ‘Who is that coming close to you?’
She waited.
‘Mr Pinto… where are you? And who is that who has come in to the gutter? Say something.’
She put her hand on the wall; from a bruise in the brick, she knew that the guard’s booth was to her left, about thirty-four small steps away.
She walked with her hand on the wall.
The guard’s booth was still twenty-nine steps away when Shelley Pinto heard her husband cry out.
Masterji, on his way to the lawyer’s office, stopped and sniffed. Balls of batter-coated starch were sizzling inside a snack store.
Quick dark arms emerged from a white banian to grate potatoes into a vat of boiling oil. Another pair of arms waited with a scoop; now and then the scoop dipped into the vat to come up with sizzling wafers. Big bins full of snacks surrounded the two men: fried potatoes (red and spicy, or yellow and unspiced), fried plantains (cut into round slices, or sliced longitudinally into strips, or coated in spices, or dusted in brown sugar), and batter-fried greens. Next door, in a rival establishment, a rival vat of raucous oil hissed with potatoes. Between them, the two shops produced the continuous competitive buzzing of boiling oil that is as much a dialect of the Bombay street as Hindi, Marathi, or Bhojpuri.
The competition of painted signs came next.
FERROUS NONFERROUS METALS. IQBAL ROZA PROPRIETOR. D’SOUZA BRAND WEDDING CARDS. BULK SALES
The old buildings began to ooze out fresh juice; ensconced in arched niches in the rotting façades, vendors sat before pyramids of oranges and lemons, operating electric mixers that rumbled apoplectically.
The sound of metallic snipping warned Masterji to slow down.
FAMOUS HAIR CUTTING PALACE
– this was the landmark mentioned in the advertisement. The next doorway must lead into the Loyola Trust Building.
The pigeons landing on the metal grilles of the windows made a constant cooing as he walked in; a sapling had cracked the cornice above the doorway. No reception area, no signboard in the lobby. A metal cage went up the airshaft, as if protecting the lift, which seemed, in any case, to be broken. Masterji knew at once the story of this building. The landlord could not – because of tenant protection laws – force his tenants out; they were probably paying the same rent they were in 1950, and he was retaliating by refusing to provide even the basics – light, safety, hygiene. You could almost hear him praying every night to God: make my tenants fall down the stairs, break their bones, burn in fire.
It grew darker as Masterji climbed the steps. A plaque of dense black wires criss-crossed the wall like a living encrustation growing over old plaster and brick. He could even s
mell the acridity of cockroach on the wall. He heard talking from above him:
‘There are three great dangers in this city.’
‘Three?’
‘Three: children, goats, and a third thing I forget.’
‘Children – a danger?’
‘The greatest. Responsible for half the traffic accidents in this city. Half.’
He climbed more steps to see a pale pot-bellied idol of Ganesha in a dim niche, like a soft white rat living on the staircase. There appeared to be no electricity up here, and uniformed men sat beneath a paraffin light. He walked unchallenged past the men, just as one cried: ‘I remember the third danger now. I remember it. Shall I tell you?’
Along a dim corridor, a bright metal sign on an open door announced:
PAREKH AND SONS ADVOCATE ‘LEGAL HAWK WITH SOUL & CONSCIENCE’
A small man in a grey uniform sat on a wooden stool between the metal sign and a glass door. A red pencil behind his ear.
‘You are here to see…’ he asked, taking out the pencil.
‘I am a man in need of legal help. A connection of mine told me about Mr Parekh.’
The man wrote in the air with the pencil. ‘What is the name of your connection?’
‘Actually, it was a connection of a connection. He had used Mr Parekh’s services.’
‘So you want to see…’
‘Mr Parekh.’
‘Which Parekh?’
‘Legal hawk with a conscience. How many of them are here?’
The peon held up four fingers.
With the red pencil behind his ear, he went into the office; Masterji sat on his chair, raising his feet as an old servant woman mopped the floor with a wet rag.
Having apparently figured out which Parekh he was after, the peon opened the glass door and beckoned with the red pencil.
Masterji stepped into fluorescent light and air-conditioning breeze.
With its low dark wooden ceiling, the office had the look of a ship’s cabin; a man wearing thick glasses sat beneath a giant framed photograph of Angkor Wat with the legend: ‘World’s Biggest Hindu Temple’.
The air smelled of disinfectant.
Mr Parekh (so Masterji assumed) was drinking tea. He stopped to blow his nose into a handkerchief and turned to use a spittoon before returning to his tea; he was like some non-stop hydrostatic system able to function only while accepting and discharging liquids. As with liquids, so with information; he was simultaneously talking on a mobile phone propped on his shoulder, and signing documents that an assistant held out for him, while somehow finding himself able to whisper to Masterji: ‘Tea? Any tea for you, sir? Sit. Sit.’
Putting down his mobile phone, he sipped the last of his tea, turned to one side to spit, and said: ‘State the problem in your own words.’
The lawyer had a bald, baby-pink scalp, but three immortal silver strands went from his forehead to the base of his neck. An ailment, possibly related to the pinkness of scalp, had eaten away his eyebrows, so that his eyes looked at Masterji with startling directness. A neck-chain with a gold medallion dangled over his white shirt. The size of the gold medallion, contrasting with the palsied state of eyebrows and scalp, suggested that though Mr Parekh had endured much in life, he had survived and prospered.
Sipping tea, he listened to Masterji’s story with fast-blinking eyes (Masterji wondered if the lack of eyebrows affected the beating of the eyelashes), and then turned to a younger man, who was quietly sitting in a corner chair.
‘I know of Vishram Society. It is a famous building in Vakola.’
The younger man said: ‘It used to be a jungle there. Now it’s an up-and-coming area.’
‘These builders – all criminals. Engaged in nothing but number two activities. Who is this Confidence Shah? Must be some slum rat.’
The younger man said: ‘I think I’ve heard of him. Did redevelopment work in Mira Road. Or maybe Chembur.’
Old Parekh ran his hand over his three long silver hairs.
‘A slum rat.’ He smiled at Masterji. ‘You’ve come to the right place, sir. You’re looking at a man who deals with a baker’s dozen of slum rats every single day. But first, we must know, what is your position in the eyes of the law. And the law has very specific eyes: Are you the sovereign of the place, or a representative of the said sovereign?’
‘I’ve lived there for over thirty years. Since I came to Vakola to teach at the school.’
‘A teacher?’ Mr Parekh’s jaw dropped. He blew into his hand-kerchief. ‘It is against Hindu Dharma to threaten a teacher. I have studied Western law and Indian Dharma alike, sir. I have even been to see the world’s biggest temple—’ He tapped the glass-faced photograph behind him. ‘Name of Angkor Wat. Let us see your share certificate in the Society,’ he said, with inquiring fingers. ‘At once, at once.’ Masterji felt as if he were being asked to undress at the doctor’s office. He had brought the document in a manila folder, and produced it now.
‘It is in your wife’s name.’
‘In her will I am named as the inheritor.’
‘It should have been transferred to your name. We can manage. As long as you have her will in your secure possession.’
He gave the document to the younger man, who almost ran from the office.
Masterji’s entire legal claim to 3A, Vishram Society, was now out of his hands; he followed its progress – via footfalls, and then creaking in the wooden planks of the ceiling – into the body of a machine; a photocopier, presumably; levers moved and cameras clicked. His certificate – his claim to a piece of Vishram Society – was being multiplied. His case felt strengthened already. The thumps and footfalls repeated in reverse – the young man re-entered the office with the original certificate and three photocopies. He pulled his chair up next to Parekh’s; almost cheek to cheek, the two men looked over the certificate together. Father and son, Masterji decided.
‘There is also another petitioner in the matter,’ he said. ‘Mr Pinto. My neighbour.’
The senior Parekh spoke first.
‘Excellent. That doubles the sovereignty in the matter. Now, as per Mofa Act—’
A whisper from the young man: ‘He may not know…’
‘Do you know of Mofa?’
Masterji smiled meekly.
‘Maharashtra Ownership of Flats Act 1963. Mofa.’
‘Mofa,’ Masterji agreed. ‘Mofa Act.’
‘As per Mofa Act, 1963…’ The old lawyer paused; breathed. ‘… and also the MCSA Act 1960, which is to say, Maharashtra Co-operative Societies Act 1960, you are the sole sovereign authority of said flat. Now the Society cannot force you to sell said flat, even by majority vote. This is confirmed by Bombay High Court decision 1988, in Bombay Cases Reporter 1988, Volume 1, page 443.’
‘443?’ said the other man. ‘Not 443, Mr Parekh. 444.’
(Mr Parekh? Not his son, then, Masterji thought.)
The old man closed his eyes.
‘444. Correction acknowledged. Bombay Cases Reporter 1988, Volume 1, page 444. Dinoo F. Bandookwala versus Dolly Q. C. Mehta. The Honourable Judge has frankly stated as per the authentic interpretation of the Mofa Act and the MCSA Act, neither BMC nor MHADA nor the Building Society is the sovereign and supreme trustee of the flat but the said owner. In this case, your good self, acting as the legal inheritor of your deceased spouse. So there is every reasonable confidence and expectation of victory. As per authentic interpretation of Mofa Act 1963 and MCSA Act 1960.’
Masterji nodded. ‘I cannot pay you. It is a case you must take in the public interest. The security of senior citizens in this city is at stake.’
‘I understand, I understand,’ Parekh said. He swiped his hand through the air, like an experienced slayer of slum rats.
‘You can settle your bill when there is a settlement,’ his younger partner explained with a smile.
‘My share certificate, please’ – Masterji gestured. The lawyer did nothing, so he reached over and almost pulled it out of his hand
s. Now he felt strong enough to say: ‘There will be no settlement in this matter.’
‘Eventually there will be a settlement,’ Parekh corrected him. ‘How long do you and your Mr Pinto plan on resisting this slum rat?’
‘For ever.’
For a moment everything in the office seemed to come to a stop: the fluids in Parekh’s head ceased to circulate, the rats in the wall and the termites in the old wooden ceiling stopped burrowing; even the particles of disinfectant spreading through the air stopped their dispersion.
Parekh smiled. ‘As you wish. We’ll fight him…’ He turned towards the spittoon: ‘… for ever.’
With a papaya wrapped in newspaper under his arm, Masterji returned to Vishram Society. Waiting for him at the gate were Ajwani, the Secretary, Mr Ganguly from the fifth floor, Ibrahim Kudwa, and the guard.
They did not make way for him. Ajwani’s hand was clamped down on the latch.
‘Gentleman,’ he said. ‘English gentleman.’
Thinking they had heard about his visit to the lawyer, Masterji said: ‘It is my right: it is my right as a citizen to see a lawyer.’
‘He doesn’t know yet,’ Ram Khare shouted. ‘Let him go in and see. Please. It is a difficult hour for the Society.’
Ajwani removed his hand from the latch. As Masterji walked in, the guard said: ‘I told you, Masterji, that this would happen. God has seen that I have done my duty.’
He saw people standing around the plastic chairs: the two Pintos were the only ones sitting down. Mr Pinto’s foot was bandaged, and it was propped up on a cushion. Mrs Puri was dabbing Mrs Pinto’s forehead with a wet end of her sari.
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