BOOK SIX
Fear
15 JULY
â⊠you said it was over, Shanmugham. A week ago.â
Driving through Juhu in the morning, sunk into the black leather cushions of his Mercedes, chewing gutka from his blue tin, Mr Shah watched the only thing there was to watch.
All night long rain had pounded Mumbai; now the ocean retorted.
Storm-swollen, its foam hissing thick like acid reflux, dissolving gravity and rock and charging up the ramps that separated beach from road, breaking at the landâs edge in burst after burst of droplets that made the spectactors, huddled under black umbrellas, scream.
Shah told his driver to take slow circles around Juhu; as the car made a U-turn, he moved to the other window, so he could keep watching the ocean. âI donât care about that old teacher and his mood swings. Now you tell that Secretary, he wonât see one rupee of his sweetener â what did we promise him, an extra one lakh? â unless he earns it. Didnât I tell you from the start, that teacher was going to make trouble? And you, Shanmugham, donât ever again tell me something is done, until it is done, until the signature is there, untilââ
Mr Shah threw the mobile phone into a corner of the car.
He had hoped there would be no fighting this time. With an offer this generous. But there would always be a fight. The nature of this stupid, stupid city. What he wouldnât have built by now if he were in Shanghai â hospitals, airports, thirteen-storey shopping malls! And here, all this trouble, just to get started on a simple luxury housingâŠ
The mucus in his chest thickened; his breathing sounded like a feral dogâs growling. Shah coughed and spat into his handkerchief. He checked the colour of the spit with a finger.
Bending down to pick up the mobile phone, he dialled Shanmughamâs number again.
Parvez, the driver, turned on the windscreen-wipers. The rain had started again.
âWait,â Shah said. âStop here.â
The boys inside the bus stand to their left were cheering.
Across the road, in the sheeting rain, one man in rags was bearing another on his back towards the bus stand. The fellow on top was covered in a cape of blue tarpaulin which billowed around them both. The man doing the carrying was pushed sideways by the wind and the weight on his shoulders; vehicles flashed their headlights at him through the rain; yet he came closer and closer to the cheering spectators, who, as if by will power alone, were pulling him to safety.
âSir?â Shanmugham was on the line. âDo you want me to start taking action in Vishram? Should I do what I did last year in that project in Sion?â
Shah looked at the men in the rain. Adding his will to that of the spectators, he urged the two of them on until they staggered into the bus stand.
The builder smiled; he struck the window with a golden ring, making Parvez turn around.
21 JULY
Fine wrinkles radiated from Ram Khareâs eyes as he read from his holy digest, like minute illustrations of the net that Fate had cast over him.
When he was in his teens he had had hopes of playing cricket for Bombay in the Ranji Trophy; when he was in his twenties he dreamed of buying a home of his own; when he was in his thirties of taking his old parents on a pilgrimage to the city of Benaras.
At the age of fifty-six, he found that his life had contracted to three things: his daughter Lalitha, an alumna of St Catherineâs School, now studying computer engineering in Pune; his rum; and his religion.
Mornings were for religion. Standing inside his guardâs booth with a string of black rudraksha beads in his left hand, he kept a finger on page 23:
âWhat are the marks by which a soul may be known? Listen to the words of our Lord Krishna. The soul is not born and it does notâŠâ
Footsteps came towards Vishram Society. He turned to the gate and said: âOne minute, Masterji. One minute.â
Opening the tin door of the watchmanâs booth, Khare stepped to one side, inviting Masterji to enter. The old teacher, who was returning with a bundle of fresh coriander for the Pintos, held it up: a gesture of protest.
Khare said: âOne minute.â
Disarmed by the servantâs insistence, Masterji gave up, and so, for the first time in thirty-two years, entered the guardâs booth at Vishram Society.
âNow if you wait just a second, sir, Iâll show you my lifeâs work.â
There was a large spiderâs web growing in a corner of the guardâs booth; Khare seemed to have no objection to its existence. Objects from the ground â twigs, chalks, pen-tops, snippets of metal wire â had been conveyed into this web, several feet off the ground: the whole thing looking like a project in mild black magic that Khare carried on in his spare time.
âThis is my lifeâs work, sir. My lifeâs work.â
Ram Khareâs fingers rested on another magical object: the long, stiffspined Visitorsâ Log Book.
He ran his clean fingernail down the columns.
Guest Name
Occupation
Address
Mobile Number
Purpose of Visit
Person to See
Time Entry
Time Exit
Remarks (if any)/Observations (if any)
Signature of Guest
Signature of Guard
âEvery single guest is noted, and his mobile number registered. For sixteen years it has been this wayââ he pointed to the old registers stuffed into plastic trays. âAsk me who came into the building on the morning of 1 January 1994, Iâll tell you. What time they left, Iâll tell you. Sixteen years, seven months and twenty-one days.â
Khare closed the log book and sniffed.
âBefore that I was the guard at the Raj Kiran Housing Society in Kalina. A good Society. There too they had an offer of redevelopment from a builder. One man refused to sign the offer â a healthy young fellow, not like you â and one morning he tripped down the stairs and broke his knees. He signed in his hospital bed.â
Masterji closed his eyes for a beat.
âAre you threatening me, Ram Khare?â
âNo, sir. I am informing you that there is a snake in my mind. It is long and black.â
The guard spread his arms wide.
âAnd I wanted you to see this black snake too. Every day Mrs Puri or Mrs Saldanha or someone else comes to your door and knocks, and asks: âHave you made up your mind? Will you sign?â And everyday you say: âIâm thinking about it.â How long can this go on, Masterji? Now it makes no difference to me whether you say yes or no. If this building stands, I have this job. If it falls, I have a job somewhere else. ButâŠâ
Ram Khare opened the door for his guest: â⊠there is the question of my duty to you. And whatever happens now, Iâve discharged it. The Lord Krishna has taken note of that.â
And with that, he went back to his holy digest: â⊠it does not die. It cannot hurt and cannot be hurt. It is invincible, immortal, andâŠâ
What cheek, Masterji thought, walking to the entranceway of his Society. Talking of a âblack snakeâ in Vishram.
He should complain to the Secretary. Mrs Rego was right; Ram Khare was drinking too much. He had smelled molasses in that booth.
Mrs Puri was at her window, watching him from behind her grille.
âMrs Puri,â he shouted, âwill you listen to what Ram Khare just said? He said I should be worried about what you and my other neighbours will do to me.â
As he watched, she shut the window and pulled down the blind. Must not have seen me, he thought. He did it all the time himself, ignored people right in front of him. Canât be helped after a certain age.
He walked into the building with the coriander.
Retreating to the mirror in her bedroom, Mrs Puri brushed her long black hair to soothe herself.
Her husband had yelled at her in the morning as he left. The first time he had yelled at her in Ramuâs presence. He had never trusted that old man. She was the one who described Masterji as âan English gentlemanâ. She was the one who had called him a âbig jackfruitâ.
Ramu, sensing his mother was upset, sat by her side, and imitated her with a phantom brush. She saw this, and in gratitude, sobbed a little.
Wiping her mobile phone clean on her forearm, she re-dialled a number.
âGaurav, itâs me again,â she said. âWhy donât you come here, Gaurav. Speak to him. Bring Ronak. He will change his mind: he is your father. Donât be obstinate like him, Gaurav. You must come to see him. Do it for your Sangeeta Aunty, wonât you?â
Wiping the mobile phone on her forearm, she put it down on the table and turned to her son.
âCan you believe it, Ramu? All those mangoes, all those years. I cut them into long thin slices and put them in his fridge. You remember, donât you?â
She could hear Masterji opening the fridge to pour himself a glass of cold water.
âWhat a selfish, greedy old man he has become, Ramu. He wants to take our wooden cupboards away from us. The Evil Eye must have found out about my good luck. This time too.â
Ramu had put his fingers in his ears. His face began to shake; his teeth chattered. Mrs Puri knew what was coming, but he beat her to it, ran into the toilet, and slammed the door. No: he wouldnât open the door for Mummy.
âRamu, I wonât say anything bad about Masterji again. I promise.â
The door opened at last, but Ramu wouldnât get up from the toilet bowl. Breathing as normally as she could, to show that she was not angry with him, that he had not made a stinky mess in the toilet, Mummy washed his behind clean with a mug of water, changed his trousers, and put him into bed with Spiderman and the Friendly Duck.
She struggled down to her knees and scrubbed the toilet floor clean. When he was frightened, he missed the bowl.
When she opened the door of his bedroom, Ramu was sitting up, angling the book in which his father had drawn lizards and spiders so that the Friendly Duck could see the pictures too.
Just outside the bedroom, a bird began to trill, its notes long and sharp like a needled thread, as if it were darning some torn corner of the world. Mother and son listened together.
When Mrs Puri came down the stairs, she found three women on the first landing, talking in whispers.
âHe plays with his Rubikâs Cube all day long. But does he have a solution?â Mrs Kothari, the Secretaryâs wife, asked. âHeâs just a block of darkness.â
âWonât even do it for his son. Or hi...