Sacred Games

by Vikram Chandra

  ‘Yes,’ Shalini said. Her irritation had melted away. She liked that he remembered, he could see that.

  Outside, the clouds sat in luxurious orange tiers. It was too early for rain, but Katekar could feel it coming. The sky was histrionically spectacular, but nobody was stopping to look at it. Katekar walked briskly, cutting an efficient loop to go to the bus-stop by way of the playground. He was thinking about sex. He had been quite unfaithful in the years immediately after he and Shalini had been married, before Rohit had been born. Looking back now, it seemed like a feverish madness, the visits he had made to dance bars and the money he had spent on girls, on grimy rooms, on taxis late at night. Shalini had been hardly more than a girl herself then, and he had lowered his head into the arc of her neck nightly, and found in the clutch of her hands on his shoulders an answering hunger, more carefully quiet than his own but as insistent, as fierce. And still he had gone to other women, randis. There was no reason for it but an urgency he felt at the offering of unknown, anonymous bellies under cheap, diaphanous nylon. It was a kind of common madness, accepted by the men of the world, and at least he had had the sense and the knowledge – even in those long-ago days when the girls themselves were surprised by this carefulness – to always wear a condom. After Rohit had been born, after he had held the tiny body of his son against his chest and felt the enormous, inescapable weight of his own love, it had become almost impossible to spend his hard-earned money elsewhere. There were these new urgencies, first among all desires: school uniforms, books, shoes, hair-oil, cricket bats, evenings at Chowpatty. Yet, it had happened even after he had come to know what amount of childish happiness was contained in a twenty-rupee note, in two kulfis as the sun set over a calm sea, he had still gone to women, despite his two sons and the two futures he was building. But it had happened rarely, the women countable on one hand in twice as many years. Men, Shalini said sometimes, there is madness in men. He always kept quiet, but he always wanted to say, the madness is in their bones, not in their hearts, not in their heads. Logic doesn’t fail, it just gets worn down sometimes, a little tired, and it wants to lie down. But I struggle for you.

  The maidan held what looked like a dozen games of cricket, with pitches angled to each other and very close. Fielders from various games ran past and behind each other. There must have been a couple of hundred boys racing past each other, on this narrow strip of packed yellow earth backed up between a sludgy nullah and the back wall of a municipal shamshan ghat. Katekar walked along the wall, his right shoulder brushing against its intricate whorls of graffiti and torn posters. He worried sometimes about children playing one wall away from burning bodies, about the billowing smoke depositing unclean ash on to the pitches. But you needed a place to cremate the dead, and the only alternative was to play at the edge of the basti, on the open road next to passing traffic. In any case, today there were no fires, no smoke. There were no more dead on this day. Mohit was sitting on a little rising mound, next to a cluster of chappals. He was looking seawards, dreamy and happy, and Katekar felt something squeeze inside his chest and give way. Rohit was the son just like his father, he was confident and practical, often funny, but it was Mohit, with his thoughtful inwardness, who made Katekar helpless with worry. Rohit’s ambition and his anger might get him into trouble, but what would become of sensitive little Mohit? What would happen to such gentleness? Katekar squatted beside him.

  ‘Not playing?’ Katekar said.

  ‘Papa.’ Mohit shrugged. He looked away, and started biting his lower lip, which he did when he was embarrassed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Katekar said, with a pat on Mohit’s shoulder. He had told them often, his sons, that sports developed character. ‘You didn’t feel like it?’

  Mohit shook his head, fast. Katekar wanted to ask, what were you thinking about just now? What were you seeing in the little sliver of watery horizon between buildings? But he smiled and rubbed Mohit’s head. ‘Where’s your brother?’

  ‘There.’

  Rohit was bowling. It was a fast ball, a little wild but with good speed. The batsman missed it altogether, hardly saw it, and the wicket-keeper took it smoothly and gave it back to Rohit in the same motion. Rohit jogged back to the wicket, easy and thinking about the next delivery. He was a good player, Katekar could tell that just from his effortless poise, from his confidence and his scientific precision as he waved his fielders in, you to the left, a little more, yes, there. Rohit saw his father then, stopped short. And there was just a small moment when Katekar saw him flinch, tighten into a resentful frown at being interrupted, invaded by his heavy-stepping father. Then he smiled and started forward. Katekar waved him back with an overhand motion: bowl. Rohit went back to his crease, stepped out his run-up and now his action was good but the ball was wide. The next one was short.

  Katekar got up. ‘Mohit,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late going home. Study well. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ Mohit said.

  Katekar squeezed Mohit’s shoulder, then walked away, fast. He was tempted, but he didn’t turn his head to see Rohit playing.

  PSI Kamble came along for the raid on the Delite Dance Bar. ‘I’ll be your undercover man,’ he said, and laughed loudly at his own wit, because they knew him at the Delite better than they knew some of their own dancers. He sat always in a prime centre booth facing the dance floor, and there were always special dispensations in his bill. In the van, on the way to Delite, he was in a glorious mood, and he told them jokes. ‘How do you fit thirty Marwaris in a Maruti 800? You throw a hundred-rupee note inside.’ The constables in the back of the van, including two women, laughed.

  Sartaj asked, ‘Why so happy, Kamble? What was the score today?’

  Kamble shook his head, and was silent and smug, and then jovial again. On they drove, to the sound of his laughter. At the Delite, after they had parked the van, and were waiting for the appointed time, Kamble came out of the building carrying a whisky and water. He drew Sartaj to the side, away from the constables, and walked him a little way down the road. He smelt powerfully of some musky aftershave, and was wearing a white Benetton T-shirt with striped green sleeves, tucked into blue jeans. He leaned back and raised one foot at a time, showing off an impressively complicated and colourful pair of running shoes. ‘Very musst shoes, no?’ he said.

  ‘Very. Foreign?’

  ‘Yes, boss. Nike.’

  ‘Very expensive.’

  ‘Expense is all relative. When there is money in your pocket, expenses get small. No money, expenses get big.’

  ‘Money got in your pocket?’

  Kamble considered Sartaj for a moment, head lowered over his glass. ‘Suppose –’ he said. ‘Suppose a bright young police officer had a khabari, a very useful one who came up with information only once in a while, but ekdum solid information when he did.’

  ‘What khabari is this? Who?’

  ‘Never mind the khabari. Not important. What is important that the intelligent young officer got a tip this morning: that one local small-time thief called Ajay Mota had a stash of stolen mobile phones in his kholi. These are brand-new phones, you understand, taken during a break-in robbery three days ago, at a shop in Kurla.’

  ‘Very good. So this officer goes and arrests Ajay Mota?’

  ‘No, no, no. That is too simple, boss. No, the khabari knows where this Ajay Mota lives. But the officer doesn’t reel the bastard in yet. No, he invests some time, he dresses in plain clothes, he takes the khabari, waits outside Ajay Mota’s basti and gets the khabari to point out the bastard when he emerges with a bag on his shoulder. This is a risk, of course – what if Ajay Mota had gone another way? But he doesn’t. The officer leaves the khabari behind, and follows Ajay Mota. Another risk, this following in busy traffic. It’s not easy, but the officer has a motorbike, and Ajay Mota is in an auto. So the apradhi’s auto goes along for ten minutes, then the apradhi gets off, goes into a shop. Comes out twenty minutes later, his bag over his shoulder. So now the o
fficer takes him, khata-khat, grabs him by the collar, shows him a revolver, two slaps, you are under arrest, bhenchod, you want to co-operate? Then, without pause, the officer takes him inside the shop, shoves him through to the back, and there’s the receiver, with the stolen phones in front of him. So, the officer has two arrests, the stolen goods are recovered and in Ajay Mota’s bag is forty thousand rupees.’

  ‘Only forty thousand? How many phones were there?’

  Kamble laughed, and emptied his glass, and caught the last few drops on his extended tongue. He was very pleased. ‘Never mind how many phones there were, Sartaj Saab. The important thing is, the bad men were caught,’ he said, standing up very straight, wagging a finger. ‘I need to refill my glass, boss. Again and again.’ And he went, humming to himself.

  Sartaj thought of Kamble’s triumph as they executed the raid. Kamble was right, the bad men had been caught. Kamble himself had taken a good chunk of cash, probably about half of what was in the bag, and maybe one or two phones. The money was a reward for his excellent policing, for his alertness and his risk-taking. He had done well today, and he was celebrating. He deserved it.

  The Delite raid itself was very orderly. Shambhu had the five girls waiting for arrest in an orderly row in his office. They were eating paya and making jokes about policemen and their sticks, while the rest of them went outside to their usual appointed cabbies for the ride home. They were a glittery, flashy bunch, mostly young, some of them quite lovely in their thick, big-screen make-up and their pride in the sleek curves of their waists.

  Shambhu came walking towards Sartaj now, followed at a few yards by Kamble. They were friends, of a similar age, both body-builders, but where Shambhu was lean and chiselled, Kamble had bulk, rounded masses and bulges.

  ‘All right, saab,’ Shambhu said. ‘Arrest away.’

  One of the women constables stood by the van, and the other opened the Delite door and called. The arrestees trooped out on to the road and climbed into the back of the van, swaying up into it, their elegant heels glinting in the red light from the neon Delite sign.

  ‘Going on that – that walk still?’ Katekar said to Shambhu.

  ‘An expedition,’ Shambhu said. ‘A walk is what you do when you go to the corner paan shop.’

  ‘Expedition, yes, you’re going?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t fall off a mountain.’

  ‘Safer there than here, boss.’

  Sartaj was watching Kamble, who was humming. He had his feet very wide apart and his shoulders thrown back and his elbows out. Sartaj walked around him. ‘Tell the young officer I said, good job.’

  Kamble grinned. ‘I will, boss,’ he said. He hummed again, and this time Sartaj could make out the song: ‘Kya se kya ho gaya, dekhte dekhte’. Kamble raised his arms, ducked his head and danced a couple of steps. ‘Tum pe dil aa gaya, dekhte dekhte.’

  ‘We’re going,’ Sartaj said. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘No,’ Kamble said. He shrugged his head over a shoulder, back towards the Delite. ‘I have an appointment.’

  Not all the girls at the Delite had been arrested, or had gone home. ‘Have fun,’ Sartaj said.

  ‘Boss,’ Kamble said, ‘I always do.’

  Sartaj thumped on the side of the van, and they pulled away. ‘Sartaj Saab,’ he heard Shambhu calling after him, ‘you could have fun too, sir. You should have fun, once in a while. Fun is good.’ Kamble was laughing, Sartaj could hear him.

  It was only after they were back at the station that they discovered they had arrested six dancers, not five. The girls sat in a row on a bench in the Detection Room and Sartaj realized they were six, and that the extra sixth was Manika. She lowered her head and looked at him demurely with her chunni over her head, all enormous dark eyes and shyness, and the other girls burst out laughing. Sartaj took a deep breath and walked out of the room.

  ‘This must be Kamble and Shambhu’s idea of fun,’ he said to Katekar.

  ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it, sir,’ Katekar said.

  Katekar had on a very serious face, and Sartaj believed him. He said, ‘Send them in one by one. I’ll sit there.’

  ‘Yes, sir, one by one.’

  Katekar stood by the door, and the women constables brought the girls in one by one, and also retreated to the door. Sartaj wrote down the names: Sunita Singh, Anita Pawar, Rekha Kumar, Neena Sanu, Shilpa Chawla. They had the names all ready for him, and were relaxed and not perturbed by him at all, and only became hesitant when he pulled the photographs from Gaitonde’s album and flipped them over one by one. Then each of them shook their heads, determined and expressionless. ‘No, no, no,’ Shilpa Chawla said as he showed her the photographs of the young women, the smiling come-hither poses under soft lights.

  ‘Look at the photo before you say no,’ Sartaj said. He tapped his forefinger on a young woman in a blue hat. ‘Look at her.’

  ‘I don’t know her,’ Shilpa Chawla said, her jaw tight. When he showed her the dead woman, who he had kept till last, Shilpa Chawla sat back in her chair and crossed her arms across her chest. ‘Why are you asking me? Why are you showing me all this? I don’t know who this is.’ Shilpa Chawla, with her doubly starry pseudonym, was disgusted and angry and frightened, and Sartaj had no evidence that she was lying.

  ‘All right,’ he said to Katekar. ‘Send in Manika.’

  She was older than the others, maybe in her early thirties, although you had to pay very close attention to see that, and even then the age was mainly in her slightly weary confidence, in the forthright straightness of her back and the blunt interest she directed at him. By the door, Katekar and the women constables were grinning at each other, and Sartaj was glad that they were too far away to hear Manika.

  ‘How are you?’ she said in English.

  ‘I have some questions to ask you, madam,’ Sartaj said, and his Hindi was clipped.

  ‘Ask,’ she said. She was dark, slim, very tall, maybe five eight, and not pretty exactly, but she had dimples and she thrust out her chin and her eyes were completely alive, and she made Sartaj uneasy.

  ‘Do you know these women?’

  She flipped over the photographs, paying close attention to each one. ‘Oh,’ she said at the third one, ‘how ugly that blouse is! Look at those frills on the sleeves, she looks like a joker. Nice-looking girl at that. Someone needs to teach her how to dress.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No,’ Manika said, and she took the remaining photographs from his hand and leaned back in her chair. She was wearing a black ghagra-choli with silver on it everywhere, and the front of the choli was thick with it, like armour on the thin fabric. She was the only one who had come in her dance-floor clothes. ‘Who are these women, inspector saab?’ Now she was demure again. ‘Girls you want to make friends with?’

  ‘Do you know any of them?’

  She was quiet, and her hands had stopped moving. Sartaj knew that she was looking at the dead woman. ‘Do you know her?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s very important that you tell me if you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t know. What happened to her?’

  ‘She was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Shot.’

  ‘By a man?’

  ‘Yes, by a man.’

  She put the photographs face-down on the desk. ‘Of course by a man. Sometimes I don’t know why we care about you. Really I don’t know.’

  Sartaj could hear the buzzing of the tube-light in the corridor outside, and distant footsteps at the front of the station. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘Most of the time I don’t know either.’

  There was an appraising scepticism in her raised eyebrow, not hostility, just a certain weary disbelief. ‘Can I go now?’ she said softly.

  ‘Yes. What name shall I write down?’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  He started to write, but stopped when she got up. The chunni slipped from her shoulder as she turned, and he saw that the cho
li was held together at the back by black strings, exposing the fine turns of her shoulder-blades and the long brown column of her back. On the dance floor she must pirouette, he thought, and blaze those eyes over a shoulder at the men in the booths, at the staring men in the darkness.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ she said from the door. In the four steps from the chair she had recovered her grin, her jaunty irony.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  She came back to the desk, turned the photographs face-up and went past the dead woman, flicked others aside with a long red fingernail, while she held her chunni close with the other hand. ‘This one,’ she said.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You’ll have to be very nice to me,’ she said. ‘Her name is Kavita, or at least that’s what she called herself when she danced at Pritam. She got parts in some videos and stopped dancing. Then I heard she was on some serial. After she got the serial she lived in Andheri East, in a PG. She was very lucky always, that Kavita. Not many girls like us get that far. Not one in a thousand. Ten thousand.’

  ‘Kavita. Are you sure it’s her? Is it her real name?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. And you’ll have to ask her if it’s her real name. Are you going to be nice?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am.’

  ‘You’re lying, but you’re a man, so I’ll forgive you. Do you know why I told you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The man who did this is a rakshasa. And don’t feel too good, you’re a rakshasa also. But maybe you’ll catch that rakshasa. And punish him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sartaj said. The man who did it had been caught, and yet had escaped, and Sartaj had never been sure about punishment, because it always seemed too much or too little. I catch them because that’s what I do, and they run because that’s what they do, and the world keeps turning. But there was no explaining this to Manika, and so he said, ‘Thanks.’

  After she had gone, after they had put the lot of them into a van and sent them home, Sartaj dropped Katekar at the corner of Sriram Road, which was within comfortable walking distance of Katekar’s place. Katekar raised his hand to his chest, and turned, and then Sartaj said, ‘What does a rakshasa look like?’