illustrations below (cockroaches, honey bees, mongoose, ants, termites, lice, mosquitoes), saluted Masterji. This pest control man often came to Vishram to knock down, with a long bamboo pole, an impromptu beehive or a wasps’ nest on the roofing. Extending his hand through the illustrated cardboard sign he wore, he seized the old teacher’s arm.
‘Masterji. Someone was asking about Vishram Society in the market.’
‘Asking what?’
‘What kind of people lived in it, what their reputation was, did they fight with each other and with others, lots and lots of questions. He was a tall fellow, Masterji.’
‘Did he wear a white shirt and black trousers?’
‘Yes, I think so. I told him that any Society with a man like Masterji in it is a good Society.’
‘Thank you, my friend,’ Masterji said, having forgotten the pest control man’s name.
So the Secretary was right, something is going on , Masterji thought. He had a vision of the green cage in the zoo again; he smelled something animal and insolent. Maybe they should go to the police in the morning.
When he reached Vishram, the gate was padlocked. Walking with care over the recently filled-up construction hole, he slapped the heavy chains and lock against the gate. ‘Ram Khare!’ he shouted. ‘Ram Khare, it’s me!’
The guard came from his room in the back of the building and unlocked the chain. ‘It’s past ten o’clock, Masterji. Be a little patient.’
The stairwell smelled. He found the stray dog lying on the first landing of the stairs, its body shivering, foam at the mouth. Did no one care that this dog could be sick? The animal had lost a layer of subcutaneous fat, and its ribcage was monstrously articulated, like the maw of another beast that was consuming it.
Masterji prodded at the dog’s ribs with his foot; when it did not move, he kicked. It yelped and rocketed down the stairs.
Waiting for a few seconds to make sure the dog did not return, he continued up to the third floor, where, as he was turning the key to his room, he heard a click behind him. The door of 3B opened wide – light, laughter, music – a young man stepped out.
Ms Meenakshi, the journalist, loose-haired and wearing her nightie, had her hand on the young man’s shoulder as he took a big step into the hallway, which caused him to bump into the old school-teacher. ‘Sorry,’ the boy said. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
He had bathed a few minutes ago, and Masterji smelled fresh soap.
‘Can’t you watch yourself?’ he shouted.
The boy grinned.
Before he knew what he was doing, Masterji had pushed the grinning thing. The boy fell back, banged his head into the door of 3B, and slid to the floor.
As Masterji watched, the young man rose to his feet, his fist clenched. Before either man could do anything, the girl began to scream.
13 MAY
What is Bombay?
From the thirteenth floor, a window answers: banyan, maidan, stone, tile, tower, dome, sea, hawk, amaltas in bloom, smog on the horizon, gothic phantasmagoria (Victoria Terminus and the Municipal Building) emerging from the smog.
Dharmen Shah watches the hawk. It has been hovering outside the window, held aloft by a mysterious current – a thrashing of sunlit wings – and it is on the sill. In its claws a mouse, or a large part of one. Entrails wink out of grey fur: a ruby inside ore. A second later, another hawk is also on the sill.
Opening the window, Shah leaned out as far as he could: the two birds were flying in a vindictive whirl around each other. The dead mouse, left behind on the sill, was oozing blood and grease.
Shah’s mouth filled with saliva. He had eaten a packet of milk biscuits in the past twelve hours.
Consoling his belly with a massage, Shah moved to the next window. He ate the view from here: the football field that occupied most of the Cooperage, the green Oval Maidan beside it, the gable and deep-arched entranceway of the University, the Rajabai Tower, and the High Court of Bombay. Amidst
‘Masterji. Someone was asking about Vishram Society in the market.’
‘Asking what?’
‘What kind of people lived in it, what their reputation was, did they fight with each other and with others, lots and lots of questions. He was a tall fellow, Masterji.’
‘Did he wear a white shirt and black trousers?’
‘Yes, I think so. I told him that any Society with a man like Masterji in it is a good Society.’
‘Thank you, my friend,’ Masterji said, having forgotten the pest control man’s name.
So the Secretary was right, something is going on , Masterji thought. He had a vision of the green cage in the zoo again; he smelled something animal and insolent. Maybe they should go to the police in the morning.
When he reached Vishram, the gate was padlocked. Walking with care over the recently filled-up construction hole, he slapped the heavy chains and lock against the gate. ‘Ram Khare!’ he shouted. ‘Ram Khare, it’s me!’
The guard came from his room in the back of the building and unlocked the chain. ‘It’s past ten o’clock, Masterji. Be a little patient.’
The stairwell smelled. He found the stray dog lying on the first landing of the stairs, its body shivering, foam at the mouth. Did no one care that this dog could be sick? The animal had lost a layer of subcutaneous fat, and its ribcage was monstrously articulated, like the maw of another beast that was consuming it.
Masterji prodded at the dog’s ribs with his foot; when it did not move, he kicked. It yelped and rocketed down the stairs.
Waiting for a few seconds to make sure the dog did not return, he continued up to the third floor, where, as he was turning the key to his room, he heard a click behind him. The door of 3B opened wide – light, laughter, music – a young man stepped out.
Ms Meenakshi, the journalist, loose-haired and wearing her nightie, had her hand on the young man’s shoulder as he took a big step into the hallway, which caused him to bump into the old school-teacher. ‘Sorry,’ the boy said. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
He had bathed a few minutes ago, and Masterji smelled fresh soap.
‘Can’t you watch yourself?’ he shouted.
The boy grinned.
Before he knew what he was doing, Masterji had pushed the grinning thing. The boy fell back, banged his head into the door of 3B, and slid to the floor.
As Masterji watched, the young man rose to his feet, his fist clenched. Before either man could do anything, the girl began to scream.
13 MAY
What is Bombay?
From the thirteenth floor, a window answers: banyan, maidan, stone, tile, tower, dome, sea, hawk, amaltas in bloom, smog on the horizon, gothic phantasmagoria (Victoria Terminus and the Municipal Building) emerging from the smog.
Dharmen Shah watches the hawk. It has been hovering outside the window, held aloft by a mysterious current – a thrashing of sunlit wings – and it is on the sill. In its claws a mouse, or a large part of one. Entrails wink out of grey fur: a ruby inside ore. A second later, another hawk is also on the sill.
Opening the window, Shah leaned out as far as he could: the two birds were flying in a vindictive whirl around each other. The dead mouse, left behind on the sill, was oozing blood and grease.
Shah’s mouth filled with saliva. He had eaten a packet of milk biscuits in the past twelve hours.
Consoling his belly with a massage, Shah moved to the next window. He ate the view from here: the football field that occupied most of the Cooperage, the green Oval Maidan beside it, the gable and deep-arched entranceway of the University, the Rajabai Tower, and the High Court of Bombay. Amidst
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