Sacred Games

by Vikram Chandra

  ‘There’s a lot of money in it, bhai,’ Bipin Bhonsle said. ‘And you know you should be with us. We have to protect Hindu dharma. We have to.’

  ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it. I’m yours.’

  A Woman in Distress

  On Tuesday morning there were five messages waiting for Sartaj from a Mrs Kamala Pandey. Sartaj shut his eyes, and through the smooth white plane of his headache tried to remember who Kamala Pandey was. It was a whisky headache, even and narrow and persistent. The morning sounds of the station house tapped at Sartaj’s skull, the constables arguing in the corridor outside, the slushing of water on concrete and the steady rasping of a jhadoo, the insistent bluster of the crows, the anguished groans of a prisoner as he was led hobbling back to the cells from an interrogation. Sartaj wanted to go home to sleep. But the day was only beginning.

  ‘Did this Kamala Pandey say what she was calling about?’ Sartaj asked Kamble.

  Kamble was rooting impatiently through desk drawers. He had spoken to his contact in the Flying Squad that morning, about an opening in the squad, and he was already acting as if the humdrum business and casual chaos of a mere suburban station was beneath him. ‘No, she did not say. I asked. She said it was personal. And she left only a mobile number.’ Now he looked up to grin. Kamble always had time to leer. ‘She sounded like a real hot item, boss. Tip-top convent accent. Your girlfriend or what?’

  ‘No. But I remember the name from somewhere.’

  Kamble slammed the drawers shut. ‘Definitely some trouble over there, boss,’ he said, and turned to check the shelves behind his desk. ‘A woman calls five times in one day, either she’s in love with you, or she’s in some ghotala. I asked if I could help her, but she insisted, no, only Inspector Sartaj Singh.’ He turned back, and he had found the file he had been looking for. ‘This maderchod station is like a bhenchod rubbish dump,’ he said. His smile was huge and happy.

  ‘But you’re leaving us soon?’ Sartaj said.

  ‘I am, absolutely,’ said Kamble. ‘Soon, soon.’

  ‘What’s the delay?’

  ‘Price has gone up. I’m short. Not by a lot, but by enough.’

  ‘I am sure you’re working hard to make it up.’

  Kamble shook the file at Sartaj. ‘A little here, a little there. I’m off to court,’ Kamble said, tucking the file into a brown rexine briefcase. ‘Come out with me tonight, boss. I’ll introduce you to a couple of good girls.’

  ‘I have an appointment. You go.’ Kamble spent his evenings with a changing cast of bar girls. There was always one who was getting too old, one who was in her prime and a young one he was helping to get into the business. ‘Have fun. Be careful,’ Sartaj said. But he knew Kamble was not going to be careful in the least. He was bouncy with confidence and daring, content with how he was raising the money to get into the Flying Squad and hungrily looking forward to swathes of action and mounds of cash. He was young, he felt strong, he had a pistol in his belt and he knew he could take life and bend her to his will.

  ‘You look after yourself today, Sardar-ji,’ Kamble said, and he was quite healthily rosy in his twill shirt and new black jeans. ‘Call me on the handy if you change your mind about anything. Or if you need help with anything.’ And he strutted off, his briefcase tucked under his arm.

  Sartaj sank down into his chair. He didn’t much mind the condescension. He was himself getting used to the idea that he was washed up, that he had reached the crest of his career and that he wouldn’t advance very far past his father’s rank. He knew now that he wasn’t going to be the hero of any film, even the film of his own life. He had once been the promising young up-and-comer, marked for advancement. Even the fact that he was a Sikh in a department full of Marathas had been an advantage as well as a burden, a marker of his separateness. He had stood out, and was known far and wide, and journalists had loved to write about the handsome inspector. But the years had worn away the shine, and he had become just like a thousand other time-servers in the department. He had his consolations, and he plodded through the day. Maybe even his memory was failing him, a little by very little. This was true. This was the truth that Kamble no doubt saw, as he went swinging up on his upward road. The Flying Squad had been very successful lately, as well. They had been killing Suleiman Isa’s men rapidly over the last three months, and not just small-time taporis either. The newspapers had been publishing the life stories of important, highly valued shooters and controllers as they had fallen one by one to the bullets of the Flying Squad. Suleiman Isa, the chief minister had proudly announced just the week before, was in retreat. The Flying Squad was going to be an exciting place for Kamble, and he was sure he was in.

  But this was Sartaj’s life, stretching forward and inescapable. There was nowhere to go but here, to this daily trial, to this untidy mess of a station. Still, there was work. On his current roster of investigations he had three burglaries, two missing teenagers, one case of embezzlement and fraud and one domestic murder. All the usual desolations. And now there were these calls from Mrs Kamala Pandey. Who was she?

  He dialled the number. She picked up on the first ring, and she was terrified. ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Pandey?’

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  ‘Inspector Sartaj…’

  ‘Yes, yes. I need to meet you.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Listen, please…’ She stopped herself. ‘I just need to meet you.’

  She was used to getting her way. Sartaj remembered her now. Her husband had thrown a puppy out of a window. Sartaj remembered the dog, poor little white thing with her skull opened on the asphalt. Mr Pandey had suspected Mrs Pandey of infidelity, so he had murdered her dog. Mrs Pandey had refused to file charges against her husband, and the husband had refused to complain about her assaults with stick and knife. Sartaj hadn’t liked either of them, and Katekar had liked them less. He had wanted to put them both inside for a night or two, on charges of disturbing the peace. Or at least shove them around a little, teach the spoilt little rich snots to keep it quiet, frighten them a little. Or one of them will end up dead, Katekar had said. Maybe that’s why Mrs Kamala Pandey was calling now, maybe the husband was dead already, and had been tucked and bent until he fitted into a bedroom cupboard. It had happened before. ‘What about, Mrs Pandey?’ Sartaj said. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Not on the phone.’

  ‘There is trouble?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can’t come to the station.’

  ‘All right,’ Sartaj said. ‘Do you know the Sindoor Restaurant?’

  On the way from the station to the underpass, Sartaj was flagged down by Parulkar, who was convoying in the other direction in a brand-new official car. Sartaj did a U-turn and followed Parulkar, who slowed down at the next patch of empty shoulder and stopped. Parulkar’s security men sprang out alertly from their jeeps and made a perimeter and held their ferocious automatic rifles at the ready. Their number had increased over the last two months, or three, ever since Parulkar had pulled off yet another of his amazing feats of survival. Whatever the dispute had been with the Rakshak government, it had been settled. Suddenly Parulkar was their grey-eyed boy, the chief minister and the home minister were consulting him every two days. The enemies had become allies, and both sides were profiting. Organized crime was retreating, bhais and controllers and shooters were being killed at such a pace that soon there would not be many left to shoot, at least until the next generation showed up. All was right with Parulkar’s world. He had made it so, and once again he had proved he was amazing. The rumour was that he had paid twenty crores to the chief minister alone, and much else to various functionaries. In any case Parulkar was back, glorious and jovial again.

  ‘Come, come,’ he called. ‘Quick.’

  Sartaj slid in beside him. There was a new fragrance inside the car, something quite delicate.

  ‘You like it?’ Parulkar said. ‘It is called
Refreshing Nectar. See, from there.’

  A sleek aluminium tube with fins sat on the dashboard vent, blinking a red light that Sartaj assumed signalled the release of Refreshing Nectar. ‘Is it from America, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Are you well, Sartaj?’

  Parulkar had just come back from a two-week visit to Buffalo, where one of his daughters was a researcher at a university. He looked rested and contented and bouncy, very much like the Parulkar of old. ‘You look very healthy, sir.’

  ‘It is the clean air over there. A morning walk, over there, revives you really. You cannot imagine.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I cannot.’

  ‘I brought something for you also, a portable DVD player. It is so small’ – holding his squared thumbs four inches away from each other – ‘and the picture is sharp, absolutely sharp. You can take it anywhere with you and watch films, you see. Very good for a policeman.’

  ‘That is a wonderful thing, sir. There was no need…’

  ‘Arre, don’t tell me about need. I know what you need. You come home, tomorrow, day after, and we will talk. The player is also at home.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Parulkar thumped Sartaj on his shoulder and sent him on his way. Sartaj thought about the new DVD player, and worried. Now he would have to buy or at least rent DVDs and then watch them. Parulkar was sure to ask for reports on his viewing. But maybe that was all right. Maybe Parulkar really understood better than him what he needed. Some entertainment might be exactly what would fix him up, and revive him like a good morning walk in Buffalo. Where in America was Buffalo? And why was it called Buffalo? Sartaj had no idea. Some more of life’s mysteries.

  Sartaj sat at his usual booth in the Sindoor Restaurant and nursed a Coke. During a recent renovation, Sindoor had gained festive new red tables and a new menu which included Bengali and Andhra food. Sartaj was reading through the Bengali desserts when Shambhu Shetty walked in. ‘Hello, saab,’ he said and sat. They had last seen each other a week ago, when Sartaj had come in as usual to pick up the monthly Delite Dance Bar contribution to the station. Shambhu had complained as usual about the necessity of raids and rising prices, and had told Sartaj about his dream trek, through the forests of Arunachal Pradesh. Now Shambhu had auspicious news. He was engaged. He had sampled from the revolving tray of feminine delights that his bar brought to him every day, but now he said he wanted to settle. ‘Those were only trailers, boss,’ he told Sartaj. ‘This is the main film.’ The heroine of Shambhu’s life-film was a nice girl that his parents had found, of course within the Shetty community. The two families had common friends in Pune, and had known vaguely of each other for decades. The girl had a BEd, but was content not to work after marriage. She was a virgin, that went without saying, or asking.

  ‘Well done, Shambhu,’ Sartaj said. ‘When is the date?’

  ‘May. The cards will be printed at the end of this month. I will send you.’

  It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and the restaurant was almost empty. A pair of college lovers sat next to each other, on the same side of a booth, nursing their Cokes and pressing thighs against each other. Shambhu was relaxed but brimming with energy. He had marriage plans, and also plans for another bar, this one in Borivili East. This new bar was to have a filmi theme, pictures of film stars everywhere. There would be different halls for the dancers, each with a distinct decor. There was going to be a Mughal-e-Azam room, and a DDLJ room. ‘You should invest,’ Shambhu said. ‘I guarantee good returns. Invest for your future.’

  ‘I am a poor man, Shambhu,’ Sartaj said. ‘I’m sure you’re not interested in investors who come with five hundred rupees.’

  ‘Poor, you? Even after that Gaitonde hit?’

  ‘That wasn’t a hit, Shambhu. The man shot himself.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Shambhu was smiling, very wise to the ways of the police. ‘And how did you happen to find him?’

  ‘Anonymous phone call. Tip-off.’

  ‘If you get a tip-off about some ready money, saab, come straight to me. This is a good time to invest.’ Shambhu uncoiled himself out of the booth. His face sloped forward to the chin, and his eyes were too close-set, but he carried himself very well. He was at ease in the world. ‘I’m expecting a beer delivery,’ he said.

  Shambhu shook Sartaj’s hand and walked briskly to the door. He stood aside then to let Mrs Pandey through. She paused to take her sleek dark glasses off, and then marched straight up to Sartaj.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. Sartaj stood up, and pointed her around a partition, to a small table near the kitchen door. Here they were quite private, alone with each other.

  She was wiping at her nose with a tissue, and Sartaj saw that she was strained, exhausted, but well turned-out. Her hair was glossy, in a sweep down to the shoulders, and she was wearing white jeans and a white top with very short sleeves and a cut that exposed a bit of her toned midriff. She was smaller than he remembered, but had a spectacular chest which filled out the white top very nicely. It wasn’t exactly the outfit Sartaj would have recommended for a private meeting with a seedy policeman in a very middle-class suburban restaurant, but women had their own reasons. Maybe all the jhatak and matak made her confident. Maybe she liked the fact that men always looked.

  She finally spoke. ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ she said. Her Hindi had just that little awkwardness that came from living her life mostly in English. ‘Pani,’ she said sharply to a waiter who had stepped up. ‘Bisleri pani.’

  Sartaj waited until the waiter had poured the water and walked away. Mrs Pandey’s fingers had a clear gloss on them that Megha had worn sometimes. Megha would have described her as a ‘hot little number’ and steered Sartaj away from her. But Sartaj felt no desire now, only curiosity. ‘It is my duty,’ he said. ‘But what is the trouble?’

  She nodded. ‘Trouble,’ she said. Her eyes were her best feature, large and almond-shaped and the colour of a glass of good Scotch with one or two ice-cubes melted in. Megha would have said that she wasn’t classically beautiful, but had worked and polished herself into hotness. She was in some very big trouble now, and it was difficult to talk about.

  ‘You’re an air hostess,’ Sartaj said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For?’

  ‘For Lufthansa.’

  ‘That’s a good airline.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They pay well.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has something happened to your husband?’

  ‘No, no.’ The sudden question made her shrink, fold her arms across her stomach. ‘Nothing like that.’

  But it had something to do with the husband. Sartaj was sure of it. ‘Then what is it?’ he said, very gently. He was quiet, and sipped slowly at his water. He was willing to wait.

  She gathered herself, and then ground it out: ‘Someone is blackmailing me.’

  ‘Someone. You don’t know who?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How are they talking to you?’

  ‘They call on my mobile.’

  ‘Is it always one person?’

  ‘Yes. But I hear him talking to someone else sometimes.’

  ‘Another man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are they blackmailing you with?’

  Her chin came up. She had made her decision, and was not going to be intimidated, or shamed. ‘With a man,’ she said.

  ‘Who is not your husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Sartaj said. She hated having to explain herself, to justify anything. ‘Madam,’ Sartaj said, ‘if I am going to help you, I need to know the details. Everything.’ He poured her some water. ‘I have worked for a long time as a policeman. There is nothing I haven’t seen. Nothing you can tell me will shock me. In our country we do everything and say nothing. But you have to tell me.’

  So she did finally tell him. There had been a man, her husband hadn’t been so wrong in his suspicions. Actually he had been rather correct. The man was
a pilot, yes. Only he didn’t fly for Lufthansa, and there had been no fun on stopovers in London. Kamala Pandey’s pilot flew for Sahara, his name was Umesh Bindal, he was single, she had met him at a party in Versova three years ago, the affair had begun a year after their first meeting, and she had broken it off six months ago. Their assignations had all taken place in Bombay and Pune and Khandala. The blackmailers had first called a month and a half ago.

  ‘What do they have?’ Sartaj said.

  ‘They knew a lot of details, of a hotel. And when I had gone to his house.’

  ‘That’s not enough. They must have something else.’

  She was flinching now, from what she had to say. ‘Videos.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of us. Outside our room.’ It looked as if the videos had been taken with a hidden camera at a guest house in Khandala. The lovers had used this guest house often, on a regular basis, and the staff had thought they were a married couple fond of quick hill-station vacations. The videos had them going into their room, and leaving it. And also holding hands and kissing and embracing as they walked to and fro, across the hotel courtyard. The blackmailers had left the video tape on the seat of Kamala Pandey’s car, in a brown envelope. Then they had called her.

  ‘How much did you pay them?’ Sartaj said.

  A small shimmer of puzzlement hovered over her taut cheeks. Sartaj laughed. ‘It’s not so unusual, madam. Everyone pays them first. The blackmailers send over the video or photographs or whatever. Then a month later they come back with new material. So what was the amount?’

  ‘A lakh and fifty thousand. They wanted two lakhs, but Umesh negotiated with them. Now they sent a new tape.’

  ‘How much do they want now?’

  ‘Two lakhs.’

  ‘And where is the tape?’