‘Yes, bhai. Your battery’s probably going to run out soon, bhai,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’
‘I want a television in here,’ I said. ‘And a proper temple.’
‘No problem. By this afternoon I can have them there. But the permissions might take time.’
‘You don’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘Just get the stuff to the main gate.’ I switched off the lethal little phone, quite pleased with its sleek sides, its pulsating little line showing the strength of the signal. I beckoned Date over. ‘Charge this up,’ I told him. ‘And tell the sentry I want to see the superintendent. This afternoon, no later.’
After lunch, I lay down for a rest and thought about Bunty. He was a modest man, not much to look at but intelligent and deadly cold in a crisis. He had been with me a long time now, and had risen until he was closest to me in all my company. He had come up fast, and yet I was not threatened by him. I knew he was ambitious, but I also understood that his aspirations extended only to living well and being respected, not to commanding his own company. I had no fear that he would want to supplant me, or break away to start his own operation. Why was he like that? Why was he content to be always second-in-command, while I had always to be the first? I was not stronger in my body, or more handsome, or more cunning. His appetite for women was as keen as mine, no more and no less. He had grown up with a widowed mother and two brothers and a sister, and the family had always balanced on the cliff-edge of destitution. But I too had survived with no money in my pockets. In most ways we were similar, and yet he was my trusted lieutenant, and I was his leader. Every morning he waited for my instructions, and was glad to receive them. Why? I conjured up Bunty’s face, with its Punjabi nose and dangling forelock, his husky voice and his forward-leaning stance, and I could find no answer other than the simple one: some men were destined for greatness, and others to clear their path. There was no shame in being Bunty. He was a good man who understood his place. This conclusion was satisfying, and I relaxed into a doze. But then I settled and sank deeper, into memory, into blackness under which lay a looming bulk which spoke in many voices, and I was a fever-ridden child in a warm bed, a woman smiled at me and pulled a blanket to my chin, she touched my forehead, and I drew my knees up and turned on my side, towards her.
I willed myself awake. I sat up. I was a busy man, I had no time to waste on daydreams. I called to my boys, and reviewed plans for the coming weeks, and asked for suggestions to improve conditions in the barrack, and listened to complaints about lawyers and judges.
I met Advani the superintendent at three that afternoon, in his office. He sat under his picture of Nehru and lectured me in his elaborate Hindi. ‘That was a very unfortunate incident,’ he said. ‘We need to work together to prevent such occurrences in the future. The consequences are painful for both of us.’ I just looked at him. I let him talk and met his gaze and looked back at him. After a while he grew uncomfortable and looked away and kept talking. But I kept my eyes on the side of his wizened little skull, and then he slowed down and cleared his throat and stopped. The fan overhead kept up its tick-ticking and he tried to rise up to my glare, but then just gave up and lost. He was sweating.
‘Can I do something for you, Advani Saab?’ I said, very gently. ‘Can I do something for your family?’
He slowly shook his head, and coughed. Then finally he could speak. ‘What can I do for you, bhai?’
‘I’m glad we are – what was it? – yes, co-operating. Here’s what I need. The men in the barrack are bored, they need information and entertainment. So a television is coming, this afternoon. We need a new power connection for it, and a cable connection. And a temple.’
‘But that’s very good. Spirituality and information, both make better citizens. Permission can be given, of course. That is good thinking.’
He was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to flatter me. Looking at his long, twitchy hands on the desk, his watery half-smile, I was disgusted. Human beings are weak, pathetic. How had this man become a superintendent? No doubt he had an uncle who was in the service already, and a cousin who was close to an MLA. Men like these filled the public services. They were all the material we were given to work with in this world. ‘It’s your good thinking,’ I said. ‘You suggested it to me three weeks ago. You wanted to improve conditions for the prisoners. I am just the provider.’
It took him half a minute to understand that, the maderpat donkey that he was. ‘Aah, yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you, bhai.’
‘Is there anything I can do for you, Advani?’ I said, pretty sharp. ‘Tell me.’
‘No, bhai. Really.’
‘Money?’
That made him panicky. He looked about his office as if someone was maybe hiding behind the cupboard. But this was too obvious and too direct a gambit on my part. Everyone wants money. He would take it, but I was a big name and an obvious connection to me could ruin his career. He would have to think about it, and be eased into it.
‘What else? A recommendation to your boss? Admission of your daughter to a good school? An extra phone connection at home?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘For the smooth functioning of the jail, I am happy to co-operate. Nothing else.’
He had his hands in his lap now, and was keeping himself very straight as he said he wanted nothing, but in his eyes was that glisten of pain which came from suddenly being offered the secret wish of his heart, but not having the courage to take it. I had seen it before, that twinge of longing, the hesitation before desire. I had the power to give men and women whatever they wanted, to reach inside their guts and pull out whatever dirty little dream they had hidden in there for a lifetime, and make it real. This frightened them. I had helped men tell me they wanted to kill their fathers, women confess that they wanted their property-stealing brothers beaten up. So I knew what to do. ‘Tell me about yourself, Advani Saab,’ I said. ‘Where were you born?’
All his self-control collapsed into a huge smile of relief. ‘Myself, I was born in Bombay, in Khar. But my father was from Karachi. They lost everything in Partition, you know.’ And he went on to tell me about his mother, also from Karachi, and how she was separated from the father on a burning train, and their reunion on a Delhi railway platform. ‘It was just like a film,’ he said. ‘They were on separate platforms, number three and number four, and the Amritsar Mail pulled out and they saw each other. Papa-ji went running across the tracks.’ And he went on, all the way through their settling in Bombay, and the birth of the two sons and three daughters, and his own years at National College. His struggles until he was finally settled. Meanwhile I was walking around his office, looking into his cupboards, moving his files around. There were no photographs of his family, but one of himself with Raj Kapoor. He had been talking about his children, of his daughter’s marriage to a US-settled boy, but now he had wound himself somehow back to his father, who knew film stars. ‘Papa-ji knew Pran Saab in Karachi,’ he was saying. ‘They played cricket together.’ So now Pran had been a langotiya yaar of Papa-ji’s, and the whole family had gone to his sets many times. They had met many movie stars.
‘Did you ever meet Mumtaz?’ I said.
‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘Twice. Arre, she was beautiful. With some of these filmi types, you know, it’s all lighting and make-up. They look all fair and lovely on the screen, but when you see them in public, you realize it’s all a sham, you wouldn’t notice them on a local train if they didn’t have that big name. But Mumtaz, let me tell you, she was something, fair as a rasgulla, what colouring, and juicy like an apple.’ He was making little round motions with his hands.
I had him. I beckoned to him over the desk, and whispered, ‘Advani Saab, have you ever eaten an apple like that?’ He laughed, shook his head, threw up his hands, dismissed the notion. ‘No, really, I mean it, there are plenty of these stars who can be arranged.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t believe that. Everyone says these things.’
; ‘Are you saying I’m lying?’
‘No, no. But.’
‘Don’t worry, Advani Saab. You wait and see. I’ll bring you an apple.’
He hemmed and hawed and protested, like a guest making ritual refusals, but I was sure. I left him, went back to the barrack. I called Bunty, and told him we needed a film star for the jailer. ‘But, bhai,’ he said. ‘Where am I going to get a film star?’
‘Bastard,’ I said, ‘you’re the king of Bombay, and you can’t get a film star? Chutiya. Call that woman.’
‘What woman?’
‘Chotta Badriya used to get girls from her. Look in his diary, you’ll find her number. If not there, he must have noted it down somewhere. Track her down. Some Jojo or Juju or something like that.’
‘Yes, bhai. Anything else, bhai?’
I was quiet. There was something else, something that was sticky, that was bumping like a pebble between the gears of my brain. I had learnt to pay attention to these half-felt botherations. And Bunty had learnt to wait. I let it swim to the surface. ‘Okay, Bunty. There is something else. This Sharma-ji, when he makes his payments, takes delivery, does he come with anyone else?’
‘Drivers for the vans or trucks, loaders, a couple of guards. UP plates on the vehicles.’
‘Do we know anything else about him, his backers?’
‘No, bhai.’
‘We need to know more. I don’t like this, doing such business with people we know nothing about. Find out.’
‘I will, bhai.’
‘Be careful. Don’t tip them off. Take your time, I don’t care. Go very slowly but find out.’
‘Understood, bhai.’
I took my afternoon nap. Shortly after I woke up, my boys brought in my temple, and the television set. It took eight of them to carry the temple. It was made of marble, and had a special granite base, to take the weight. There was a graceful statue of Krishna, playing his flute, his gold dhoti flaring behind him. He was poised on the balls of his feet, one foot behind and crossed over the other. He was dancing. The boys put up his temple, and installed him in it as the prisoners buzzed happily. Then we all sat down for our first puja. Meetu and Dipu sang a bhajan. Date put a big tika on my forehead, and Kataruka had a garland ready for me. I took the garland and put it at Krishna’s feet.
Then we switched on the television. I had the seat of honour, directly in front of its high perch, in the exact middle of the room. The entire barrack arranged itself in a huge half-moon behind me, with the boys in the first row. We switched it on, and with perfect timing, Deewar was just starting on Zee. There were no arguments, we watched it. Every man in the barrack had seen it before, but there wasn’t a whisper when the film was running, except when the lines were called out before the characters said them, and when great bursts of applause rang out. We were all with Amitabh, we were with him through his climb to the top, but when the inspector brother said, ‘I have Ma with me,’ the whole barrack said it with him. The film ran through dinner-time, but a quick consultation with my new friend Advani fixed that problem, and dinner was delayed, only for that day. On that day we were all together, all one.
That was how my days went, improving the condition of the inmates, managing the affairs of the company. The gaandu special court kept refusing my bail applications, and my lawyers kept making them. And so I languished in the raj of TADA, and my suffering continued. Every day, I spoke with Bunty. You cannot imagine how much work it is to run a company, all the things one has to think about: finance, accounts, law cases, pensions, distribution, publicity, benefits, equipment and transportation, inflows, outflows, discipline problems. But I had work, and my hands back on my company, so I slept well at nights. In the mornings, the television was going the minute we got back into the barrack after the count. The boys always switched it to a bhajan programme, and I would sit and listen for a while. Then we switched it to news. One morning, Date came to me, looking sour.
‘These bastard landyas,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I hear they’re complaining about the temple and television.’
‘Complaining? Complaining how?’
‘They’re saying you’re a Hindu don after all. Setting up big-big temples, and giving televisions to play bhajans.’
‘I didn’t hear them complaining when they were watching Dewaar again last night.’ The channel had been playing it over again.
‘Actually some of them did. They like the film and Amitabh. But they also say the story is really about Haji Mastan, but he had to be made into a Vijay because a movie about a Muslim don can’t be made in this industry.’
‘So it’s the producer’s fault that he has to worry about all the money he invests in the stars? These bastards will pay out of their pockets when the film doesn’t recover?’
‘Their jaat is like that, bhai. Ungrateful bastards. And if you do something for the Hindus, they always think it’s against them.’
I was angry, but I was thinking. You can’t change how people think by beating them up, and this was a problem of belief. And even after the bomb blasts and the riots, I had Muslim boys working for me. I was, after all, publicly a secular don. Date was muttering curses. ‘Find out what they need,’ I said. ‘See if they need copies of the Koran or something. Let’s do something for them.’
‘I tell you they won’t change, bhai. Always complaining, complaining.’
‘Just do it.’
He went off, his shoulders tight and head down, like a bull. The irritation stayed with me, under my skin. At nine-thirty, Bunty called with more irritation. He was upset about Jojo.
‘Bhai,’ he said, ‘this Jojo bitch needs to be taught a lesson.’
‘What did she do?’
‘For weeks now she’s been giving me trouble. She won’t send any girl to the jail for Advani, she says. And she won’t negotiate on price. But it’s her whole attitude, bhai. Like she’s some sort of big boss, not afraid of anyone. “If you don’t want to do business, then don’t,” she told me. I asked her if she knew who she was talking to, and she said, “Yes, you’re Gaitonde’s little Bunty.” It was the way she said it, bhai. I cursed her and she started laughing. She’s mad. I wanted to go out and put two golis up her gaand, bhai.’
‘But you called me instead. That’s good, Bunty. Self-control always.’
‘Only because you said we needed to deal with her, bhai. I don’t know how Badriya put up with her. I told her to treat your name with respect, and she says, “Or what? He’ll kill me?”’
‘She said that? Then you said?’
‘I told her that she was a screw-loose randi. And then I called you. Let me teach her. Let me beat her up, bhai.’
‘What’s her number?’
‘You’re going to talk to her yourself?’
‘No, I’m going to have the barrack sing to her. Give me the number.’
So I called Jojo. She picked up on the second ring. ‘Haan? Tell me,’ she said, half in Hindi and half in English.
I came back in Hindi: ‘That’s how you say hello?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Your baap.’
‘He died years ago, that weak bastard.’
‘You don’t have any respect for anything?’
‘Men are worse than dogs. Especially men who waste my time. Like you.’
‘You better listen to me.’
‘Why?’
‘People who make me angry suffer a lot.’
She burst out laughing, and she wasn’t pretending: her laugh was wild and full, and hearing it I started to smile a bit.
‘I don’t believe this,’ she said. ‘Such big-big dialogues. I know who this is. The big Gaitonde himself, calling me.’
‘Listen, saali,’ I said. ‘You want to end up in a ditch? I’ll make you dig your hole yourself, before I put you in it.’
‘That’s a dhaansu line,’ she said, and roared again. And then quietened down, and said, ‘You want to kill me, Gaitonde?’
‘It wou
ld be easy.’
‘Fine. Come on, then.’
And she hung up.
I raised my hand to throw the phone, then very slowly lowered it. I pressed redial, and waited.
‘Yes? Tell me,’ she said. She was very calm.
‘Are you completely mad?’
‘Many people think so.’
‘You’re lucky to be still alive.’
‘I think that every morning.’
I liked her. From that very first conversation, from the very first time I heard that voice, hoarse like a man’s, I liked her. She laughed at me, and I liked her. But I made my voice hard, and spat out, ‘You’ve always been off? You were born mad?’
Sacred Games Page 60
