When she saw Masterji, she let out a sharp cry: ‘Here comes the madman!’
Ajwani and the Secretary, along with Ibrahim Kudwa, walked behind Masterji.
‘What happened to you, Mr Pinto?’
‘Look at him, asking!’ Mrs Puri said. ‘Does this thing and pretends not to know about it. Tell him, Mr Pinto. Tell.’
On her command, the old man spoke: ‘He said he was going to hurt… my wife – at her age – old enough to be his grandmother. He… said he was going to come with a knife next time… he… and then I got frightened and fell into the gutter.’
‘Who told you this?’ Masterji knelt to be at eye level with his oldest friend. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Just outside the gate… Shelley and I were walking… it must have been four o’clock, and then I heard this puppy whimpering, and I went outside, and got down into the gutter to save the puppy. Then this boy, he had a gold chain on his neck, eighteen-nineteen years old, and a hockey stick with him, he stood over me and said, are you the man from Vishram who wants nothing? And I said, who are you? And then… he put the stick on top of my head and he said, next time, it will be a knife…’ Mr Pinto swallowed. ‘… And then he said, “Do you understand now, what it means, to want nothing?” And then I turned and tried to run but I fell into the gutter and my foot…’
‘We had to take him to Doctor Gerard D’Souza’s clinic on the main road,’ Mrs Puri said. ‘Thank God, it’s just a sprain. Doctor D’Souza said at his age he could have broken his foot. Or something else.’
Mrs Pinto, unable to hear more, sank her face into Mrs Puri’s blouse.
Masterji stood up.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Pinto. I’ll go to the police at once. I’ll tell them to arrest Mr Shah. I taught the sons of some of the constables. You don’t worry.’
‘No,’ said Mr Pinto. ‘Don’t go again.’
‘No?’
The old accountant shook his head. ‘It’s all over, Masterji.’
‘What is all over?’
‘We can’t go on like this. Today my foot is hurt, tomorrow…’
Leaving the papaya on the ground, Masterji stood up.
‘You must be brave, Mr Pinto. This Shah cannot threaten us in daylight.’
Mrs Pinto pleaded with her face and fingers. ‘Please, Masterji, let’s forget about this. Let’s just sign Mr Shah’s document and leave this building. I began all this by saying I didn’t want to go. Now I tell you, it’s over. Let’s go. You come and have dinner with us this evening. We’ll eat together.’
‘I won’t eat with cowards.’
Masterji kicked the papaya; shedding its newspaper wrapping, it scudded along and smacked the wall of Mrs Saldanha’s kitchen.
‘I’m going to the police station, with or without you,’ he said. ‘This builder thinks he can frighten me? In my own home?’
Mrs Puri got up.
‘The police? You want to make things even worse?’ She put a finger on Masterji’s chest and pressed. ‘Why don’t we take you to the police?’
From another side, another finger poked him: Ajwani.
‘You have turned this Society into a house of violence. In forty-eight years nothing like this has happened in Vishram.’
Mrs Puri said: ‘A man who fights with his own son – and such a lovely son at that – what kind of a man is he?’
Ibrahim Kudwa stood behind her: ‘Sign Mr Shah’s agreement now, Masterji. Sign it now.’
‘I will not be made to change my mind like this,’ Masterji said. ‘So shut up, Ibrahim.’ Kudwa tried to respond, then sagged, and stepped back.
Moving him aside, Ajwani stepped forward. The Secretary came from the other direction. Shouts – people poked Masterji – someone pushed. ‘Sign it now!’
Ajwani turned and cursed. Mrs Saldanha’s waste water pipe was discharging right on to his foot. ‘Turn the tap off, Sal-dan-ha!’ he shouted.
‘Have!’ she shouted back, but the water still flowed, like a statement on the violence in parliament. The dirty water separated the crowd; from the stairwell, there came a barking – the old stray dog rushed out – the Secretary had to move, and Masterji ran up the stairs.
As he bolted the door behind him, he could hear Mrs Pinto’s voice: ‘No, please don’t go up. Please, be civilized!’
*
He barricaded the door with the teakwood table. When he went to the window, he saw them all gathered below, looking up at him. He stepped back at once.
So I’m the last man in the building now, he thought.
He sniffed the air, grateful for the tannic smell that lingered from the brewing of ginger tea.
Pouring out what was left in the porcelain pot, he drank bitter cold tea.
He called the number on the business card he had brought with him.
‘Just lock yourself in,’ Mr Parekh said. ‘Tomorrow, come see me again: if I am not here, my son will see you.’
‘Thank you. I am all alone here.’
‘You are not alone. Parekh is with you. All four Parekhs are with you. If they threaten you I will send a legal notice: they’ll know they’re dealing with an armed man. Remember Dolly Q. C. Mehta versus Bandookwala. The Mofa Act is with you.’
‘How can they threaten good people in daylight? When did things change so much in this city, Mr Parekh?’
‘They have not changed, Masterji. It is still a good city. Say to yourself, Mofa, Mofa, and close your eyes. You sleep with the law by your side.’
But Ram Khare’s black snake was in his room now. Right in his bed, moving up his thigh. The snake’s tongue of violence flickered before him. You’re next, Masterji. A young man with a gold necklace and thick, veined arms comes to him one evening and says: I just want to have a word with you, old man. Just a quick…
He had been too scared to protect Purnima from her brothers: he would not be scared this time.
‘Go away,’ he said.
Slithering down his legs, the black snake left.
As the lawyer’s card rose and fell on his chest, Masterji looked at the sagging, scaly skin that covered his hands. Mofa, he recited as instructed. Mofa, Mofa. He gave his fingers a shake, and old age flew away: he saw young strong hands now.
3 AUGUST
To,
All Whom It May Concern
Within my Society and outside it
From,
Yogesh A. Murthy
3A, Vishram Society
Vakola, Mumbai 55
This is to state that intimidation in a free country will not be tolerated. I have been to the police station and received every assurance from the Senior Inspector that this is not a neighbourhood where a teacher can be threatened. I am not alone. The famous legal team of Bandra, Parekh and Sons, with whom I am in constant touch, will initiate action against any person or persons threatening me via phone or mail. In addition, I have students in high places such as the Times of India office. Vishram Society Tower A is my home, and it
Will not be sold
Will not be leased or rented
Will not be redeveloped
Signed (And this is the real signature of the man)
Yogesh Murthy.
*
The inspector at the Vakola police station meant what he said about his neighbourhood being safe for senior citizens.
A fat constable named Karlekar came to Vishram Society within half an hour of Masterji’s phone call in the morning.
After taking a statement from Masterji (who, it turned out, had not actually seen a thing, as he had been away in Bandra consulting a famous lawyer) Karlekar sat down at the Pintos’ dining table, wiping his sweaty forehead and looking at Mr Pinto’s bandaged right foot.
Mr Pinto said: ‘No one threatened me. I slipped outside the compound and twisted my foot. Serves me right, walking so fast at my age, doesn’t it, Shelley?’
Mrs Pinto, being all but blind, had nothing to say on the matter.
The constable jotted things in his notepad. The Secretary came up to the P
intos’ flat to say that the so-called ‘disturbance’ was, essentially, an exaggeration.
‘We are an argumentative people, no doubt about it,’ the con stable agreed, with a smile. ‘The station receives imaginary complaints all the time. Burglars, fires, arson. Pakistani terrorists.’
‘A melodramatic people,’ the Secretary said. ‘It is all the films we watch. Thank you for not making a sensation of this matter.’
Constable Karlekar’s mouth had opened. ‘Look at that… oh, no… no…’ He pointed at a moth circling about the rotating ceiling fan in the Pintos’ living room; sucked in by the whirlpool of air, it drew closer and closer to the blades until two dark wings fluttered down to the floor. The constable picked up each wing.
‘I don’t like it when a moth is hurt in my neighbourhood,’ he said, handing over the severed wings to the Secretary. ‘Imagine what I feel like when an old man is threatened.’
The wings slipped through the Secretary’s fingers.
An hour later, the constable had dropped by Vishram Society again. He lit a cigarette by the gate and chatted to Ram Khare. The Secretary saw him getting down on his knees and peering at the dedicatory marble block outside Vishram, as if examining the 48-year-old certificate of good character issued to the building.
*
‘People will soon be talking all over Vakola. A policeman came to Vishram Society? The famous, respectable, honourable Vishram?’
‘Quiet, Shelley.’
Mr Pinto was at the window. A Burmese mahogany walking stick, a family heirloom, leaned on the wall next to him.
He and his wife were now in a new relationship to their Society. Neither of one camp nor of the other. Masterji no longer came to their table for food, nor did they go down to parliament, in which there was usually only one topic of discussion: the character of the resident of 3A.
This evening, the parliamentarians had begun by talking about Masterji and ended up fighting.
‘You got a secret deal. A small sweetener’ – Mrs Puri to Ajwani.
‘Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Mrs Puri.’
‘A-ha!’ she shouted. ‘You confess. You did get one.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I’ve heard things,’ Mrs Puri said. ‘One thing I tell all of you here – even you, Mrs Saldanha in your kitchen: even you listen. No one is getting a secret deal unless my Ramu and I get one too.’
‘No secret deal has been given to anyone,’ the Secretary protested.
‘You must have been offered the very first one, Kothari.’
‘What an accusation. Didn’t you vote for me at the Annual General Meeting? I kept maintenance fees fixed at 1.55 rupees per square foot per unit, payable in two instalments. Don’t accuse me now of dishonesty.’
‘Why was the building never repaired all these years, Kothari? Is that how you kept the costs flat?’
‘I have often wondered the same thing.’
‘You’re every bit as bad as Masterji, Mrs Puri. And you too, Ajwani. No wonder Masterji turned evil, living among people like you.’
Using the Burmese walking stick, Mr Pinto limped to the bedroom, and lay down next to his wife.
‘Did Masterji have breakfast, Mr Pinto? He must be hungry.’
‘A man won’t die if he eats less for a few days, Shelley. When he gets hungry he’ll come back.’
‘I don’t think so. He is such a proud man.’
‘Whether I’ll let him back here is another thing, Shelley. Don’t you remember he called me a coward? He borrowed one hundred rupees from me to take an auto to Bandra West to see that lawyer. I’ve entered that in the No-Argument book. He’ll have to apologize, and pay my hundred rupees back, before he can eat at my dinner table again.’
‘Oh, Mr Pinto, really… not you, too. They abuse him so much in parliament these days.’
‘Quiet, Shelley. Listen,’ Mr Pinto whispered. ‘He’s walking to the window. He always does that when they start up about him, Shelley. Why? Have you thought about it?’
‘No. And I don’t want to.’
‘He wants to listen when they say bad things about him. That’s the only explanation.’
‘That can’t be right. Why would any man want to listen when such things are said about him? The other day Sangeeta said he used to beat Purnima. What a lie.’
Mr Pinto did not understand why the man did it, but each time parliament met down there to gossip about him, Masterji stood by the window, and sent down aerial roots to suck up slander and abuse. That must be his new diet, Mr Pinto thought. He is chewing their thorns for lunch and nails for supper. From mockery he is making his protein.
As he looked at the chandelier, it seemed to be mutating into something stranger and brighter.
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? Mas
terji 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.
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