Sacred Games

by Vikram Chandra

  ‘You wait here,’ Sartaj said to Birendra Prasad. ‘You two come with me.’

  ‘Saab?’ Birendra Prasad said.

  ‘Quiet. Come on.’

  The boys followed him inside. Sartaj took them through the front rooms, to his desk. He was tired, and he wanted a cup of chai very badly, but here were these two bastards. They were good-looking, strapping young men, both in bright T-shirts. ‘Who is Kushal, who is Sanjeev?’

  Kushal was the older one. He was chewing on his lip. He was only tense, though, not scared. He still had some confidence in his father and in himself.

  ‘So you have eaten a lot of mithai in this life, Kushal?’

  ‘No, saab.’

  ‘That’s why you have become such a hero with big muscles?’

  ‘Saab…’

  Sartaj slapped him across the face. ‘Bastard, shut up and listen to me.’ Kushal’s eyes were wide. ‘I know you have been bothering the girls in your area. I know you stand around the gallis and think you are the rajas of everything you see. But you aren’t bhais, you aren’t even taporis, you are little insects. What are you looking at, bhenchod? Come here.’ Sanjeev cringed, and shuffled forward. Sartaj fisted him in the belly, not too hard, but Sanjeev doubled over and turned away. Sartaj thumped him on the back.

  It was an old routine of violence and intimidation, and Sartaj performed it automatically. If Katekar had been there, they would have enacted the ritual with a practised co-ordination that approached a kind of beauty. But Sartaj was hot, and tired, and so he hurried up the sequence. He wanted to get it over with. The boys were amateurs, and required no great subtlety or skill. In ten minutes they were panting and stammering and terrified. Sanjeev had a stain down the front of his pants.

  ‘If I hear about any trouble from you two again, I’ll come and get you and give you some real dum. You understand? Maybe I’ll bring in your father also. Maybe I’ll string him up too.’

  Kushal and Sanjeev shuddered, and had nothing to say.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Sartaj shouted. ‘Go!’

  They went, and Sartaj sat and leaned back and took out his handkerchief and found it already damp. It was disgusting, but he wiped his neck and shut his eyes.

  His mobile phone rang.

  ‘Sartaj Saab?’

  ‘Who is this?’ Sartaj said, although he knew the rough rumble of the voice. It was Parulkar Saab’s old woman, the high-up contact in the S-Company he had spoken to a few days ago.

  ‘It is your well-wisher, Iffat-bibi. Salaam.’

  ‘Salaam, Bibi. Tell me.’

  ‘I heard you are interested in a chutiya named Bunty?’

  ‘I may be.’

  ‘If you haven’t decided yet, beta, it’s too late. Bunty is dead, lurkaoed, finished.’

  ‘Did your people arrange it?’

  ‘My people had nothing to do with it.’ She sounded completely convincing. ‘The man was useless anyway, sala langda-lulla.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It will be on your police wireless in a few minutes. Goregaon. There is a building complex called Evergreen Valley, in the compound of that.’

  ‘I know the place. All right, Iffat-bibi, I’m going.’

  ‘Yes. And see, next time you want something, somebody, anybody, talk to me first.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ll come running to you.’

  She guffawed at his sarcasm, said, ‘I’m putting down now,’ and hung up. Sartaj drove fast, accelerating through intersections and weaving across the lanes of traffic. There was already a police van in front of Evergreen Valley, and a crowd of plain-clothes officers in the car park to the rear. Sartaj saw several men he knew to be in the Flying Squad. As he walked up to the body, he saw their boss, Senior Inspector Samant, and then he was sure Bunty had been hit.

  ‘Arre, Sartaj,’ Samant said, ‘what news?’

  ‘Bas, sir, just work.’ Sartaj pointed at the corpse, which lay face-down and twisted to the left. The wheelchair was on its side, three feet away.

  ‘You know this maderchod?’ Samant said, arching an eyebrow. ‘What, Parulkar Saab has an interest in him?’

  ‘Is it Bunty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I had an interest in him.’ Sartaj squatted. Bunty had an interesting profile, very craggy and distinct, with a finely shaped nose. The back of his head was gone, and brain matter and blood spread in a fan-shape from him. His checked shirt was soggy too, in the back. ‘One in the head, two in the back?’

  ‘Yes. I think the back first, then the head. I didn’t know you were working organized crime.’

  ‘No, not generally. But I had contact with Bunty.’ Sartaj stood up.

  ‘After you got Ganesh Gaitonde I thought you might be on some special detail for Parulkar Saab.’

  Samant was bald, pudgy and prosperous, and he was looking very hard at Sartaj. He was said to have killed at least a hundred men himself in encounters, and Sartaj had no trouble believing it. ‘No, nothing like that,’ Sartaj said. ‘This Bunty business was just part of another case.’

  ‘Bunty’s business is finished,’ Samant guffawed. ‘Maderchod tried his best to get away. That wheelchair must have moved faster than a car.’ He pointed at black skid marks that went across the car park, almost to Bunty’s body.

  ‘You thokoed him?’

  ‘No, no. That would have been good, I’ve been after the bastard for a long time. But his own boys finished him. That’s our theory at this time. Nobody saw it happen, of course.’

  ‘Why would his own boys do it?’

  ‘Arre, yaar, Gaitonde is dead, so poor lame Bunty’s reach is lame also. On his own, he was not so much. Maybe his boys switched to the other side, maybe the other side paid them.’

  ‘Suleiman Isa?’

  ‘Yes. Or someone else.’

  So Bunty hadn’t managed to come in safe, after all. Sartaj walked over to the wheelchair. It was indeed impressive, with thick wheels that looked as if they belonged on a racing car. The machining of the body was solid, all in some sort of very modern, sturdy and precisely engineered steel. An engine pack and battery sat under the seat, which was thickly cushioned in black. A joystick and some controls on the right-hand armrest must have allowed for steering, and for raising the chassis on its hydraulic suspension and going up and down stairs and whatever else this sleek chariot did. All those foreign tricks hadn’t managed to get Bunty away from his murderous friends, and so maybe now Miss Anjali Mathur’s investigation had run into a dead end. Sartaj stood up. It wasn’t really his case anyway. ‘The wheelchair looks undamaged,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. The wheels were still running when we got here. There’s one button there that switches it off. We’ll keep it. Soon one of these gaandus will get shot and become a langda-lulla’ – here Samant made a lolling face and let his arms go limp – ‘and we’ll use it to take him to court.’

  ‘Very smart,’ Sartaj said, touching his forehead. ‘What was Bunty doing here?’ Evergreen Valley was three massive buildings in a rectangular compound edged by small two-storey houses. The only green Sartaj could see were a few patchy hedges scattered at odd angles between the buildings.

  ‘We don’t know yet. Maybe they were visiting. Maybe they had an apartment here.’

  ‘Please let me know if you find out anything, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Samant walked with Sartaj towards the gate. ‘If you are interested now in all this company business, Sartaj, we can work together. It is very good, you know, professionally and otherwise. We can exchange information.’ Samant handed Sartaj a card.

  ‘Of course.’ What Samant wanted was that the next time Sartaj got a tip about a big catch like Ganesh Gaitonde, he should call Samant, the encounter specialist. Apart from professional praise and stories in the newspapers, putting a bullet in a big company bhai could make you a lot of money. Other companies would pay for a job well done. Samant was said to have single-handedly built a grand and very modern hospital in his village in Ratnagiri. ‘I will call you if I le
arn anything.’

  ‘My personal mobile number is there. Call any time, day or night.’

  Sartaj left Evergreen Valley and Samant and Bunty and the wheelchair, and went back to the station. Sitting at his desk, he examined Samant’s card. Samant was actually ‘Dr Prakash V. Samant’, according to the elaborate gold lettering. He was also a ‘Certified Homeopath’, in addition to his achievements in the force, which included the Police Medal for Meritorious Service. Sartaj sighed at how undistinguished his own career had been, and then called Anjali Mathur and told her about the unfortunate demise of his source.

  ‘So all we know is that Gaitonde was looking for a sadhu?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘That is interesting, but not enough.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘These things happen. Keep following up with the sister. You will get background, at least.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Shabash,’ she said, and hung up.

  Sartaj was glad that she understood that such things happened. You could never depend on a source, and even when they were talking, the information was always incomplete. You could only piece together a supposition about what had happened. And if your source was a bhai constantly dodging his occupational hazards, it was inevitable that he would one day end up with a bullet in his head. There was nothing that you, or he, could do about it. A policeman would fire the bullet, or an enemy, or a friend. If he hadn’t spilled the information you needed by the time his skull compressed under the impact of flying metal and exploded, that was your very bad kismet. Bas. Bunty finished and your case finished.

  But Sartaj knew he was only trying to console himself with this things-happen line. The truth was that he had never got used to violent death. He didn’t know Bunty at all, he had only spoken to him for a few minutes, but now that Bunty had been shot he would stay with Sartaj for a few days. For a few nights he would show up, wagging his aquiline nose at Sartaj and waking him at odd hours. Sartaj had struggled with this weakness throughout his life, and it had kept him from making the professional choices that men like Samant grabbed eagerly. Sartaj had killed only two men during his career, and he knew he couldn’t kill a hundred, or even fifty. He just didn’t have the fortitude for it, or the courage. He knew this about himself.

  Sartaj sat back in the chair, put his feet up on the table and dialled Iffat-bibi’s number.

  ‘So you have had Bunty’s darshan,’ she said.

  Sartaj grinned. He was beginning to rather enjoy her abrupt pronouncements. ‘Yes, I saw him. He didn’t look too happy.’

  ‘May he rot, and all his lineage too. He was a cowardly bastard all his life, and that’s how he ended: running away.’

  ‘So you know even that, Bibi? Are you sure your people didn’t do it?’

  ‘Arre, I said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘There is a theory that Bunty’s own boys did it.’

  ‘Did that fool Samant tell you that?’

  ‘Samant is very successful, Bibi.’

  ‘Samant is a dog who feeds on other people’s leavings. You watch, he’ll claim this as his own encounter. And the chutiya doesn’t even know that Bunty’s boys left him two days ago. He wasn’t making enough income, so they went to other jobs.’

  ‘You know everything, Bibi?’

  ‘I’ve lived a long time. Don’t worry, we’ll know soon who took Bunty’s wicket.’

  ‘I would like to know.’

  ‘Very good, beta – when you want to know, ask.’

  Sartaj burst out laughing. ‘All right, Bibi. I will remember that.’

  Sartaj hung up, and thought about Bunty speeding around the city in his wheelchair, from hideout to hideout. He must have been very alone and terrified without his bodyguards, and sure enough, someone had found him and overtaken him. A small shudder of sympathy extended itself across the small of Sartaj’s back, and he twisted angrily and stood up, bringing his feet down hard. Bunty had caused enough misery in his time, and the gaandu deserved whatever he got. Whoever had stamped him out deserved some money, or at least a medal. He hoped they had been well taken care of.

  On his way home that evening, Sartaj took a detour to see how far the sadhus had come on their mandala. The crowds of the morning had thinned, but the sadhus were still working in the dusk, under a bright pool of lamplight. Sartaj stood by the window, and the older sadhu from the morning saw him, ducked his head and smiled at Sartaj’s namaste. He was doing some fine work on one of the inset panels, colouring in the blond flank of a deer. The deer had impenetrable dark eyes, and sat against the deep greens of a forest glade. Sartaj gazed at the falling golden sand. The sphere was about half-done. It was inhabited now by a host of creatures, large and small, and a swirl of divine beings enveloped the entirety of this new world. Sartaj did not understand any of it, but it was beautiful to see it come into life, so he watched for a long time.

  Ganesh Gaitonde Wins an Election

  Kanta Bai died on a Friday in February. Just four days earlier, on Tuesday morning, she had woken up with a fever. She prided herself on her resilience, and cultivated a fine contempt for doctors. She had told me that more people died from going to hospitals than from their diseases. So she drank glass after glass of mausambi juice, and went out to her tharra-still as usual. She met her employees and sent out her consignments. By late afternoon she was very tired, and came back home and slept. She woke at eleven at night, shivering, with pain in her arms and legs, and loose motions. But still she – the fool who believed that she would survive anything, bacterial or human – she didn’t call a doctor. She ate a plate of rice with curd, took two Lopamide tablets and sent her people away. At eight that morning her sister found her, eyes rolled up, torso twisted in soiled sheets. I learnt of this at nine, after they had already taken her to a private hospital in Andheri. She had malaria, the doctors said. I had her moved to Jaslok, and told the doctors that they should give her any foreign medicine, any treatment she needed. But she was dead on Friday afternoon.

  We took her to the electric crematorium in Marine Lines. When she was laid out on the track that led into the fire, her cheeks were fallen, and her body under the sheet looked flattened, as if the quick sickness had shrunk her. Her skin no longer had that dark, reddish bloom, it was pale mud. I forced myself to look as the metal doors closed her off from us for ever. And then I stayed until they gave her sister the ashes. I could do nothing but sit quietly next to this sister as we waited, and then give her a ride home.

  I had done nothing to save Kanta Bai – this thought tormented me that day, and over the nights that followed. I told the boys to pay attention to their health, and to seek medical advice as soon as they felt an illness coming on. I gave free physical check-ups to all my controllers, and started an anti-malarial campaign in the basti. I had the gutters cleaned, and took measures to remove pools of stagnant water. But I was only putting on a show. I knew I had been defeated.

  It was at this time that they came to me. I want you to know that, Sartaj Singh. I never went to politicians, they came to me. I had Gopalmath, I had all the area that had belonged to the Cobra Gang, I had my hand in many businesses, money came in, and apart from the matter of Kanta Bai I was happy. I had dealings with corporators often, especially when we were arranging regular water supply to Gopalmath, but I had no liking for the breed, they were born lying. I had no love for politicians, and so I never tried to cultivate MLAs and MPs. But Paritosh Shah brought one of them to me. He said, ‘Bhai, this is Bipin Bhonsle. He’s standing for assembly elections next month and needs your help.’ Now this Bipin Bhonsle, he was smartly dressed, good blue pants, printed shirt, dark glasses, he didn’t look at all like those khadi-kurta bastards with their Nehru-topis who you see on television all the time. Bipin Bhonsle was young, my age and respectful.

  ‘Namaskar, Ganesh Bhai,’ he said. ‘I have heard a lot about you.’

  ‘This fat man has been telling you?’ I said, waving Bhonsle to a chair. I took Paritosh Sha
h by the hand and made him sit next to me on the divan. He had grown and grown in the several years I had known him, so that the Paritosh Shah I first knew was disappearing slowly inside this cushioned mass. ‘Look at him wheeze. I worry about his heart.’ He was breathing hard from his climb up the two flights of stairs.

  Paritosh Shah patted my arm. ‘I am taking Ayurvedic medicine, bhai. No need to worry.’

  He had told me about his new Ayurvedic doctor, who had five computers in his air-conditioned clinic. ‘Better that you run a few miles every day,’ I said. He made a running motion with his arms, pumping them up and down, and he looked so funny, with his jiggling breasts and his belly swaying from side to side, that I burst out laughing, and then he did. But Bipin Bhonsle only smiled, and not too much. I liked that. He had good manners. Meanwhile a boy brought out tea and biscuits. We drank and talked. The job was simple enough, I thought. Bipin Bhonsle was the Rakshak candidate for the constituency of Morwada, which bordered Gopalmath to the north. The voting population in his area was less than half white-collar Marathas, people who had lived there long before the building boom, before the developers had started building the posh colonies in the suburbs. Bipin Bhonsle was sure of these Marathas, of the office workers and Class II government officers and clerks, as he was of the pockets of Gujarati and Marwari shopkeepers and traders scattered here and there. The problem was the other half, the Congress voters and the RPI diehards who lived in the Narayan Housing Colony and around Satyasagara Estates and in the bastis of Gandhinagar and Lalghar. The Rakshaks had never been able to win an election in Morwada, mainly because of these bastards, who were all sorts, seths and professionals and airline crew and retirees, but Bipin Bhonsle was most resentful of the poor chutiyas who lived in the shacks of Lalghar. ‘Bhenchod landyas,’ he said. ‘Of course not one vote for us from there. You put out a hand of friendship to them, they turn away.’ Lalghar was a Muslim basti, so of course there were no votes for the Rakshaks from there. To expect votes from people you made a policy of hating was stupid, and typical of the Rakshaks, but I smiled politely at Bipin Bhonsle.