Last Man in Tower by Aravind Adiga

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