Masterji could not take his eye off the rodent Caesar. He did not notice that his arm was tipping over a glass.
As the waiter came to pick up the pieces, Mr Pinto took out the No-Argument book and added to Masterji’s debit list: ‘Fine for broken glass at (so-called) Biryani Emperor. Rs 10.’
Having paid for food and the broken glass, the two were walking back to Vishram Society.
‘Rats have always fought humans in this city, Mr Pinto. In the nineteenth century there were plagues here. Even today they outnumber us: six rats for every human in Bombay. They have so many species and we have just one. Rattus norvegicus. Rattus rattus. Bandicota bengalensis. We must not let them take over the city again.’
Mr Pinto said nothing. He wished again that Masterji had his Bajaj scooter with him, so they wouldn’t have to walk back on a full stomach. He blamed his wife Shelley for this. After Purnima’s death, she had suggested Masterji follow the advice in a Reader’s Digest article and renounce something to remember the deceased person by.
‘For example,’ she had said, ‘you can give up eating brinjals. And each time you crave a brinjal, you’ll remember Purnima.’
Masterji thought about it. ‘I will give up my scooter.’
‘No no,’ she protested. ‘That’s extreme. Brinjals will do.’
Masterji relished the extreme: the scooter went.
A fifteen-minute walk later, the two old men reached their local market, a row of blue wooden stalls, lit by white tube-lights or naked yellow bulbs, in which the most disparate trades were conducted side by side: a chicken shop smelling of poultry shit and raw meat, a sugar cane-vendor’s stall haloed in raw sucrose, a Xerox machine in a stationery shop yawning flashes of blinding light, and a barber’s salon, busy even at this hour, stinking of shaving cream and gossip.
Mr Pinto finally summoned up the courage.
‘Masterji,’ he said, ‘why don’t you have yourself checked at Mahim Hinduja hospital? They do a full-body check-up.’
‘Checked? For what?’
‘It begins with D, Masterji.’
‘Nonsense. I have perfect control over my bowels. I have always had strong lower organs.’
Mr Pinto looked at his shoes and said: ‘Diabetes.’
‘Mr Pinto. I don’t drink much, don’t eat much, I don’t even have television. How can I get diabetes?’
‘You are losing your temper. The other night it happened with the modern girl’s boyfriend. Everyone in the Society has been talking. And you go to the toilet all the time. We hear it from below.’
‘How dare you, Mr Pinto. Spying on me. I’ll go to the bathroom when I want to. It is a free country.’
They walked back to Vishram in silence. Ram Khare, the guard, came running up to them: ‘Have you heard the news, sir?’
‘What news?’ Mr Pinto asked.
‘The Secretary is at Ajwani’s office now, sir – go there and hear the news for yourself,’ Khare said. ‘There’s gold for all of you! Gold!’
‘He’s drinking again,’ Mr Pinto whispered. They left the raving guard behind them and walked up the stairs.
The old accountant said: ‘Come to our room and have a small peg, Masterji.’
‘Not tonight, Mr Pinto.’
‘We have the Amaretto. Tony’s gift. Let’s have a peg. A peg each.’
Mr Pinto had a wonderful liqueur, brought by his son Tony on his most recent visit from America, and sipped only on treasured nights. Masterji understood that this was in the nature of an apology, and touched his friend’s shoulder, before walking up to his own flat.
Vakola at night: the red neon cross of St Antony’s church glows over the main road. Vendors of paani-puri bhelpuri, and gulab jamuns suspended in sugar syrup feed the tidal waves of tired humans coming in from the train station. Plastic watches, metal locks, toys for children, sandals and T-shirts punctuate the offerings of food.
Across the road, the lights are on at the Renaissance Real-Estate Agency.
Vakola is not a suburb where real-estate brokers become rich. At least four operate just along the main road. Of these, Renaissance is the most attractive; spacious, bright, its glass door painted with an image of Lord Krishna playing his flute in the magic gardens of Brindavan.
Inside, seated at his steel desk, Ramesh Ajwani, looked up from a copy of the real-estate pages of the Times of India. Mani, his assistant, had opened the glass door to allow a young woman to enter.
Ajwani removed his half-moon glasses, and motioned for the visitor to sit.
How nice, he thought, to find a young woman in this modern day who can wear a sari well.
A radiant sky-blue, cut perhaps a bit low.
Her English was better than his; he noted this with pleasure.
A two-bedroom for herself, a working woman, unmarried, with both parents living with her. One-year rental lease of the renewable nature. Range of Rs 15,000 to 20,000.
Ajwani, as was his habit, added 10 per cent to the upper range of the figure quoted, and thought at once of a set of places to show her. He put his hands on his table and leaned in to the woman.
‘You seem to think I am a broker, miss?’
Ajwani’s dark, pockmarked face was so unusual for his community that clients routinely mistook him for a South Indian – a good thing, he felt, because South Indians, unlike Sindhis, are known as an honest people. He was stocky, thick-necked, wore blue or cream safari suits, and smelled of Johnson’s Baby Powder.
The woman in the sky-blue sari recovered. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘I am not.’
Parallel engraved lines slanted high on Ajwani’s cheeks, like facial gills, adding a touch of menace to his grin.
‘I will not do what every other broker in this city does. I will not lie to you. Will not say a building is “virtually new” if it is forty years old; will not gloss over peculiarities in the neighbours, seepages and leakages in roof or walls. I believe in accurate information – for myself and for my clients. Please look at the wall. My three gods are up there.’
The young woman saw a full-length framed portrait of the Sai Baba and another one of the god Balaji in his 24-carat-gold costume at Tirupati.
‘The third one is my most important god. Do you know his name? Please take a closer look at him. Go to the wall, please.’
The woman in the blue sari did as she was told; in between the deities she saw a small printed list.
KNOW YOUR FACTS
One BHK (Bedroom Hall Kitchen)
Two BHK (Two Bedroom Hall Kitchen)
Three BHK (Three Bedroom Hall Kitchen)
Deposit: Multiple of rent – up to six months
‘Token’ Money – must be paid
NOC (No Objection Certificate, from Secretary of Society) – must be given
Police Clearance Certificate (from local station) – broker will obtain.
Passport-size photo (x2) – needed. Proof of Employment – a must
Carpet area; Built-up area; Super built-up area – know the difference
Leave-and-Licence Agreement: who pays for stamp paper? Decide first
Types of renters: Family, Single Bachelor, Company Bachelor, NRI, Foreign Passport – who are you?
Standing behind the broker, she noticed that his right foot, having slipped out of its slipper, was opening and closing the lowest drawer of his desk in a clear state of excitement.
‘Do you know the name of this god, miss? He is called “Information”. Make him your master too. Now, please sit down.’
Waiting for her to return to her seat, he turned a framed diptych of photographs around to her.
‘R and R, my two boys. Rajeev and Raghav. Just like me. R for Ramesh. Also my brokerage, R for Renaissance. And notice they are both wearing tae kwon-do outfits. Fitness is my fourth god.’
While the young lady admired the diptych, he leaned in.
‘Miss Swathi, this Ajwani of yours is neat, happy, ugly, crude, truthful, mongoose-faced.’ He emphasized
each adjective with his hands, which were covered with cheap rings. ‘And these are his virtues.’
The girl tried hard to suppress the urge, then put her hand on her mouth, and succumbed. She shook with laughter; the broker beamed.
‘I also enjoy making people laugh. Especially young women. Their laughter is the sweet…’
Just then the glass door of the Renaissance Real-Estate Agency opened. Secretary Kothari walked in with another man – tall, dark, dressed like a salesman in a white shirt and black trousers.
‘What is it, Kothari?’ Ajwani asked. ‘I’m with a client.’
‘It’s urgent,’ the Secretary said.
Ajwani was talking to a young woman in a sky-blue sari that exposed her navel. Nothing could be more urgent right now.
‘We are looking for a two-bedroom for her parents and herself. I’ll come and see you in your office when we have finished our work, Kothari. And you, sir, I’m not interested in any more insurance, thank you very much.’
‘Ajwani, Ajwani.’ The Secretary put his fists on the desk. His voice trembled. ‘All your dreams are about to come true, Ajwani.’
The man who looked like an insurance salesman sat down, and slid a piece of paper over the laminated table towards the broker.
Ajwani put on his half-moon glasses; then he picked up the paper and began reading.
A small Hindu temple stood at an intersection just beyond the fruit and vegetable market. Beggars crouched about it; dappled brown goats wandered around it; Mrs Puri prayed.
Move it, God. The stone that blocks Ramu’s mind. That was how she had always pictured it: a boulder had locked her Ramu’s mind inside a cave. At least stop it from rolling backwards and pushing him deeper into the cave. Who will take care of him when he grows old?
When it came to places of worship in Mumbai Mrs Puri was an expert; Muslim, Christian and Hindu, she had been to each of them for her Ramu. Haji Ali, Mount Mary, SiddhiVinayak, Mahalakshmi, you name it, she had prayed there.
She gave a rupee each to the supplicants squatting by the temple, making sure they earned their money – ‘Ramesh Puri. We call him Ramu. Pray for him with all your strength’ – and went to the market to buy fresh vegetables for dinner.
Curved green stems bearing yellow bananas were suspended from the ceilings of the grocery shops; glitzy plastic satchels of instant Chinese noodles and malt powder twinkled beside the bananas like nouveau-riche cousins. Two Catholic priests, head to toe in white cassocks, stood at the counter of a grocery store, learning about the Reliance Company’s prepaid mobile phone plans from the owner. Mrs Puri overheard. Reliance? Oh, no. Vodafone had much better reception here. She was about to save the two holy men from being swindled, when:
‘Good evening, Sangeeta-ji.’
Ibrahim Kudwa (4C) passed her on his Honda Activa scooter with a wave. His wife had her arms around his waist, and his ten-year-old son Mohammad sat in front of him in his martial-arts outfit (GOJURU TAE KWON-DO); inside his bulky, billowing white kurta, Kudwa had the look of a bleached kangaroo carrying its entire family in its pouches.
Mrs Puri felt lighter. She envied Kudwa his happy family life – just as she knew he in secret envied Ajwani for owning a Toyota Qualis; just as Ajwani probably envied someone else; and this chain of envy linked them, showing each what was lacking in life, but offering also the consolation that happiness was present right next door, in the life of a neighbour, an element of the same Society.
She returned to Vishram with brinjals and beetroots.
The Secretary and Mr Ajwani were standing by the black Cross with folded palms. A man in a white shirt and black trousers – she recognized him as one of the two who had come the other day asking all the questions – was punching a mobile phone behind them.
‘Mrs Puri,’ the Secretary’s voice trembled. ‘Quickly. Up to your room. Your husband wants to tell you himself.’
Her heart contracted. God, what have you done to my family this time? What new horror?
Mrs Rego stood athwart the entrance of the Society.
‘This is an illusion, Mrs Puri. You must understand that. The money will never come.’
‘Let me go,’ Mrs Puri almost pushed the Battleship aside. She ran up the stairs to her Ramu. The door to her flat was open. Her husband and her boy were sitting together in the dark.
‘All of us… all of us… all of us in this building…’ Mr Puri said, when she turned on the light.
‘Yes?’ she whispered. She soothed Ramu’s brow with her palm. ‘Yes?’
‘We’ve paid our taxes, and we’ve helped each other, and we’ve gone to SiddhiVinayak and Mount Mary church and Mahim church…’
‘Yes?’
‘… and now all of us in this building, all of us good people, have been blessed by the Hand of God.’
And then her husband told her why the Secretary, Ajwani, and the strange man were standing by the black Cross, and why the Battleship was attempting to block the entrance.
Rum-pum-pum. Ramu, catching the excitement, walked round his parents. Rum-pum-pum-pum-pum-pum-pum.
Mr Puri watched his wife. ‘Well? What do you think?’
‘If this is really true,’ she said, ‘it will be the first miracle of my life.’
For the past three decades, the residents of Vishram Society 3A (Murthy) and 2A (Pinto) had been four people with one set of sleeping habits. If one couple went to bed early the other couple turned off their television and went to bed. If one couple chose to sing along to Lata Mangeshkar late into the night the other couple also sang along to Lata Mangeshkar late into the night.
Tonight Mr Pinto was enjoying a bout of insomnia. He stared at his ceiling. For thirty years that ceiling – with the chandelier hanging from the centre like a glowing fountain of intelligence – had been an image of his neighbour and friend’s mind.
‘Why is he walking about so much, Shelley? It’s past ten o’clock.’
Mrs Pinto lay next to him. Because of her near blindness, she did not accompany her husband and Masterji on their biryani outings.
‘Nothing to worry,’ she said.
‘Are you sure he has diabetes? He hasn’t seen a doctor yet.’
Mrs Pinto, who could not see the chandelier, concentrated on the footsteps, which went from one end of the room to the other, then stopped (a moment’s pause at the window) before turning around.
‘It’s not diabetes, Mr Pinto.’
‘Then what?’
Mrs Pinto was wiser about men. At her age, the body has become an automatic machine that moves in predictable tics, short repeated motions; but the mind is still capable of all its eccentric leaps. She guessed, from the pattern of the footsteps, the truth about the man up there.
‘The evenings, they must be terrible.’
So many months on his own, without a hand to touch in the dark.
Mrs Pinto turned around in bed so she wouldn’t have to listen.
‘He’s not the only one moving about,’ her husband said. ‘Can you hear? Something’s happening in the building.’
A glow-in-the-dark portrait of the Lord Balaji at Tirupati, his late wife’s favourite deity, hung from a hook on the wall of Masterji’s bedroom. A semi-automatic washing machine sat near the god’s portrait, while a cotton mattress for visitors, rolled up like a striped pink earthworm, was stacked on a small chair next to the machine. A square window with iron bars looked out on to the black Cross in the garden.
The wall was lined with built-in cupboard doors: but this was false cupboarding, meant to imitate the home of a man with more money – behind the doors were six green metal Godrej almirahs, where Purnima had stored everything from her wedding jewellery to the ledgers in which she did the household accounting. Masterji had only been allowed to watch as she went through a thick set of keys, found the right one, opened an almirah, and took out what she wanted. He knew that one shelf in an almirah was for her saris; one was for saris in which bundles of coins and notes were hidden; one was for saris in w
hich chequebooks were wrapped; one was for documents relating to their children’s education; one for their finances. A month after her death, Gaurav had called to ask for her diamond necklace, the one she had bought at the Vummidi store in Chennai; Sonal was eager that her mother-in-law’s jewels shouldn’t be lost. Masterji said he did not remember any such necklace, but promised to look in the cupboards. His son’s coldness, he was sure, had started from this time.
Masterji opened one cupboard, and stared at the Godrej almirah inside, on which he saw himself reflected. A narrow full-length mirror had been set into the body of the almirah. Hundreds of red dots (brick red, mud red, and blood red) covered the mirror’s upper half; his wife used to stick one of these bindis on her forehead each time she left the house. Masterji thought the mirror made him look like a man with diseased skin, or a flowering tree.
In the kitchen the old calendar began to tap against the wall: once again he had the sensation that his wife was right there, chopping onions.
A key had been left in the lock of the almirah; he turned it to find the shelves empty, except for one that was paved with newspaper and defended by camphor mothballs, with just an old silk sari lying in it.
Her wedding sari.
He closed his eyes and brought his hands near the gold border of the sari. He breathed in the camphor-tinted air from the shelf. He thought of the time he had not defended her from her brothers in Suratkal. The old calendar began to hit the wall faster, tap-tap-tap, and now he was sure that Purnima was speaking to him. Tap-tap-tap. She did not want to know about the past. She wanted to know about the girl next door. The journalist.
He breathed in more camphor-tinted air for strength, and confessed. A human being at sixty-one is shining lusts in between old bones, Purnima. The girl next door disturbed him, it was true. He thought his wife would be angry, but she was some place beyond anger now. The calendar tapped again: she was telling him not to agitate himself. She understood now that a man cannot punish himself for his desires, which are sent to him from another world, and she knew he must have felt the same feelings for other women – his colleagues at school, perhaps even some who lived in Vishram Society – but he had repressed those urges and stayed true to her, and this self-control was meritorious, something that helped her on her journey over the oceans. Why, she asked, now that she was dead, did he feel shame at being aroused? Shame and guilt, he replied, with a candour he could never have summoned when Purnima was alive, they had been more than half of a man’s life. For his generation, or for his type of man within that generation, this was always the case. True, she said, true, beating her wings and rising over the ocean. She understood that her husband’s life had bent to black magnetic poles marked ‘Shame’ and ‘Guilt’: yet one of the grey wavelengths in between must be Conscience. That faint line was the one he should find. To guide him through what was coming next.