Sacred Games

by Vikram Chandra

  Sartaj wasn’t completely reassured, but Parulkar’s confidence was comforting. After all, Parulkar was the man with the unerring instincts, whose record of arrests and successful investigations was unequalled. ‘Yes, sir,’ Sartaj said. ‘It is all just a story based on rumours, nothing more.’ He pushed back his plate. ‘That was very good.’

  ‘Come on,’ Parulkar said. ‘I have something for you.’

  Sartaj was expecting the usual load of cash to be transported, but Parulkar led him to the bedroom and offered a grey box.

  ‘Open, open,’ he said.

  Sartaj lifted the lid – bearing an embossed logo he had never seen before – and found tissue paper, very soft paper that individually wrapped the most glossy, elegant shoes he had ever encountered. They were simple, but sleek, and every stitch around the sole spoke of care and quality. The colour was perfect, brown with a hint of red, not flashy but eloquent. These were ideal shoes.

  ‘They are Italian, Sartaj,’ Parulkar said, ‘straight from Italy. You wear a nine wide, yes?’

  Sartaj had to make an effort to break out of his trance. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Come on, try them on. I had a friend bring them in from Milan, told him the size and everything. Let us see if they work.’

  Sartaj sat on the bed, pulled at his laces. The moment he slipped the new shoe on his right foot, he knew it would work. ‘It’s good, sir.’ He put on the second one, and stood up. ‘Perfect fit, sir.’ He walked from one end of the room to the other, and shook his head in wonder. It was not just the hold of the shoe, which was close without getting snug, but its weight and mechanism. Sartaj walked. This was an Italian shoe which lived up to its foreign billing.

  ‘Right,’ Parulkar said. ‘So let’s throw away those old ones. I was surprised that you wore them so long.’

  ‘Wear these on the street, sir?’

  ‘Of course, Sartaj. Good things are not for keeping in the cupboard. Life is uncertain, one must enjoy. Wear them.’

  Sartaj looked down. Yes, it would be possible to wear these on duty. They were not conspicuous, and only a discerning eye would be able to recognize their true quality. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Mention not,’ Parulkar said, waving an expansive hand. He nodded, very satisfied. ‘Now you look like Sartaj Singh again.’

  Homi Mehta was counting the stacks of Parulkar’s money at his usual unhurried, precise pace. Sartaj leant back in an office chair, his arms behind his head and his legs straight out, feeling quite relaxed. It was amazing that a pair of shoes should give him such an oasis of serenity, but then it was the small things in life that really mattered. Let global events do their worst, good craftsmanship was still possible and, yes, necessary. Sartaj wriggled his toes and let out a sigh, surprising Homi Mehta and himself.

  ‘Twenty. All complete and correct,’ Homi Mehta said, and patted the cash. ‘You are happy today.’

  Sartaj shrugged, but couldn’t hold back a smile. ‘Just comfortable.’

  ‘Did you bring any money of your own?’

  ‘No. Not today, Uncle.’

  ‘Arre, how many times to tell you? Save when you are young.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I must think of the future. Maybe next time.’

  ‘Next time, next time, like this your life will pass. Let me tell you, one day you wake up and you are old. And where is your security? And how will you support your wife?’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but you will be. You don’t want to depend on your children, I tell you. Especially nowadays.’ Homi Mehta stood up and began stacking the money into a black plastic bag. The snowy white of his linen shirt was exactly the tint of his neatly clipped hair. ‘No doubt your children will be good children, but it is a shameful thing to have to ask them.’

  ‘Uncle, you have me married and having children already. Anyway, I’m not so close to retirement yet. There is time left.’

  ‘Yes, yes, exactly what I am saying. Use the time fruitfully, Sartaj. Lay out a strategy. Establish your targets, and make a scheme. I can help you.’

  Sartaj could see that Homi Mehta was completely baffled by his obtuseness, that he was a man who lived by long-term plans and intricate outlines. ‘Okay, Uncle. You are completely correct. Next time I come in we will sit down and discuss everything. We will write down goals, and make…’ Sartaj made motions, a series of steps.

  ‘Charts.’

  ‘Yes, charts. Don’t worry. We will do everything. Everything will be taken care of. We will prepare.’

  In the lift, hedged into a corner by a sabji-walla and his basket of tomatoes and onions, Sartaj watched the wrinkled neck of the liftman. The lift stopped at many floors, and the liftman clanged back his doors and let in servants and saabs, mothers and dhobis. Sartaj was thinking about how uncanny an animal this life was, that you had to seize it and let go of it at the same time, that you had to enjoy but also plan, live every minute and die every moment. And what of disasters? Suppose the cable broke, and the lift plummeted, carrying its load of men and women into the dark chasm below, would they all grieve within that drop for the days and years missed, or worry about the ones left behind? The light that came between the bars of the door flashed white and dark across Sartaj’s eyes, and he felt light and insubstantial, and yet full of blood and muscle and movement.

  The lift heaved and shifted and settled on the ground floor, and Sartaj shook off all questions and suppositions and imaginings and stepped out into the hard daylight. There was work to do. He had almost reached the building’s gate when his phone rang.

  ‘Sartaj Saab, salaam.’

  ‘Salaam, Iffat-bibi. Everything is well?’

  ‘Yes. But you could brighten my day.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I hear you are down in the city, near us. Why don’t you give us a chance to extend our hospitality?’

  Sartaj stopped short. ‘How do you know where I am?’

  ‘Arre, saab, we are not following you. No, no. It is just that we also do business with the man that Parulkar Saab makes you take his money to. One of our boys saw you, he told me, that is all.’

  Sartaj was on the road now. He turned in a quick circle, but there were only the ordinary pedestrians passing by, nobody who looked like a fielder. ‘Your boys are everywhere.’

  ‘We have many employees, that is true. Saab, you know we are in Fort, not so far away. Come and eat with us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? I am your well-wisher, and I hope you are mine.’

  ‘Why do you suddenly want to meet me?’

  Iffat-bibi let out a long breath. When she spoke again, she was no longer the kindly old woman. ‘I have a big proposal for you,’ she said, and her voice had smoothened and tightened into stone. ‘A proposal that I would prefer to give to you face-to-face.’

  ‘I am not interested.’

  ‘At least listen to what I have to say.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why? We have dealt with each other before.’

  ‘On small things, and I am a small man. I have no capability for big proposals.’

  ‘You are content with remaining small?’

  ‘I am happy.’

  Her laughter was straightforwardly mocking. ‘That is a coward’s happiness. How long will you run Parulkar’s little errands? That man makes crores, and you, how much? Your promotion is overdue, and does he help? He is not your well-wisher, Sartaj Saab.’

  ‘Don’t say anything about him.’ Sartaj’s hand was trembling, and he had to make an effort to keep his voice down. ‘Don’t say anything. Understand?’

  ‘You are very loyal to him.’

  Sartaj waited. He could believe now that this old kutiya helped run a company, that she sent out murderers and extortionists.

  ‘But he is not loyal to you,’ Iffat-bibi said. ‘He was not even loyal to your father…’

  ‘Bhenchod, shut up.’ Sartaj hung up. He strode down the road, then realized he had gone past the Gypsy. He came bac
k, heaved himself into the driver’s seat and sat with his hands on the wheel, trying to calm himself. There was no need to get angry. That randi was just trying to manipulate him. Yes, and she had succeeded. Calm, calm.

  Sartaj finally started the vehicle and pulled out into the traffic. Now he was able to think. The question was, why was Iffat-bibi saying these things about Parulkar to him, to him of all people? When, and why, had Parulkar become distasteful to her, and to her company? It was probably true that he was now close to the present government, but that was only survival. Iffat-bibi and her people would have to understand that. So why was Suleiman Isa now Parulkar’s enemy?

  Sartaj had no answers, and he did not want to ask Parulkar. He had always kept himself clear of Parulkar’s big business, away from knowledge of Parulkar’s intricate network of patronage and money and connections. He did not want to know because he wanted no part of it. He was afraid of the gravity of that vast constellation of ambition and wealth and power, he was afraid that he would be sucked, helpless, into it. Yes, maybe Iffat-bibi was right, maybe he was a coward. He had not courage enough for that spinning circle, he was frightened – as frightened as a child – of being shattered by its velocity.

  By the time he passed through Mahim, one question still bit at him: had Papa-ji been afraid, too? Maybe Papa-ji’s integrity, and what little of it Sartaj had himself, came really from fear. Maybe they were both not big enough to ask for too much. Small rewards for small hearts. But there was no way around this thorny blockage. Sartaj did not want to deal with Iffat-bibi. He did not want to know more about Parulkar, and that was that. He drove faster, and tried to leave it all behind.

  Sartaj met Kamala Pandey in a coffee shop on S.V. Road. She was going shopping in Bandra that afternoon, she had said, and the coffee shop was a convenient place to meet. She was sitting at the back of the shop, with two full shopping bags and Umesh next to her. Sartaj wasn’t expecting Umesh, but he was there, glorious and beautiful in black jeans and a white T-shirt. He was sitting close to Kamala, arm to shoulder, and Sartaj wasn’t sure that they weren’t secret boyfriend and girlfriend again, but he was certain there had been some haramkhori recently. Some pushing-and-pulling, as Kamble would have put it.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  Sartaj pulled out a chair and sat. He nodded, and said nothing. Kamala shifted about, and then said in a very small, girlish voice, ‘I told Umesh to come. I thought he may be able to help.’

  Sartaj kept his voice soft, and very neutral. ‘If you want to keep this case private, then keep it really private.’

  Umesh smiled, and leant forward across the table. ‘Inspector saab,’ he said, ‘you are absolutely correct. But Kamala is alone in this, you see. And she needs some support. I am the only one she can talk to about this. A woman needs support, you see.’

  He really was very charming, in a confidentially boyish sort of way. His hair fell over his forehead and he had a very sweet smile, a young one. Sartaj couldn’t deny any of this. ‘Yes,’ Sartaj said. ‘But…’

  ‘Will you have a coffee, inspector saab?’ Umesh said. ‘Do. It’s very good here.’

  ‘No,’ Sartaj said. ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Try the cappuccino,’ Umesh said. He raised a pointing finger, and called to the boy behind the counter. ‘Harish. One cappuccino here.’

  Sartaj let it go. He had only a vague idea of what a cappuccino was, and he knew he didn’t want one. But it wasn’t worth the effort to argue with charming Umesh. ‘We are making progress on the case,’ he said to Kamala. ‘There have been some breakthroughs. Let’s see if something comes of them.’

  ‘What breakthroughs?’ Kamala said. She was eager, excited.

  ‘I can’t talk about details, madam. The case is still under investigation.’

  ‘Please,’ Kamala said. ‘What is it?’

  Sartaj shook his head. ‘I’ll let you know when we have something more concrete. This is just a connection.’

  ‘Is it something to do with Rachel?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Surely you can tell Kamala,’ Umesh said. ‘Given the conditions that exist.’

  ‘What conditions?’ Sartaj said.

  Umesh shrugged. He tilted his head towards one of Kamala’s shopping bags. A brown envelope was sticking out of it, from among the rich squares of boutique tissue paper.

  ‘Ah, those conditions,’ Sartaj said. He reached across the table, took the brown envelope between thumb and forefinger. Inside, there was the unmistakable square bulk of money. Sartaj dropped the envelope into its cushion of Kamala’s packages and stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Kamala said.

  ‘Please understand one thing,’ Sartaj said, looking at Umesh. ‘I am not your employee. You are not my boss. I do not report to you. Keep your money.’ And then, in English, ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Wait,’ Kamala said, frantic.

  ‘Arre, boss,’ Umesh said. ‘You took offence. I didn’t mean anything like that.’ He was on his feet now. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He put a hand on Sartaj’s arm, then took it away quickly.

  Sartaj knew that he had on his fearsome face, and that Kamala was quite afraid. She had never seen his flat policeman’s eyes, this jagged promise of violence. Sartaj felt a flicker of regret, for frightening the fair Kamala, but Umesh had withered under this hostility, and Sartaj was enjoying his befuddlement. Then there was someone standing at Sartaj’s elbow. ‘Cappuccino,’ the boy said brightly, quite unaware of the tension at the table. Sartaj looked down at the foamy cup, and when he came back to Umesh, the man’s charisma was back in place.

  ‘Inspector saab,’ Umesh said. ‘Truly, I am sorry. I am a fool. I am a fool. Please. I’m an idiot. Kamala mustn’t suffer because of me.’

  Harish the cappuccino boy was taking in the drama, wide-eyed. Sartaj felt foolish himself. He had been frightened this morning by Mohit’s anger, by his own apprehensions over Mohit’s future. Then he had been unsettled by Iffat-bibi. And here he was, taking it all out on Kamala. And Umesh really was drooping with regret and sadness. There was a vulnerability to him that Sartaj hadn’t seen before. Sartaj shook his head, and took the cup from Harish. ‘Okay,’ he said. He sat, and waited until Harish was safely away. ‘All right,’ he said to Kamala. ‘When there is something concrete to tell you, I will tell you.’

  Kamala nodded rapidly. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘That is fine.’

  Umesh was sitting back in his chair, far back from Sartaj. ‘Try your cappuccino, sir,’ he said. ‘It is really very good.’

  Sartaj took a sip. It was rich and full, like its foreign name. He looked around at the shop, at its glossy pastel walls and pictures of European streets. Harish was serving a gaggle of eighteen-year-olds at the counter. The tables towards the front were all occupied by students, resplendent in their chunky shoes and carefully tousled hair. We never had places like this in college, Sartaj thought. Megha and he had huddled together in Irani restaurants, drinking stale chai, enduring stares from balding businessmen.

  ‘Sugar?’ Umesh said.

  ‘It’s sweet enough,’ Sartaj said. There was a little green car sitting next to Umesh’s cup, attached to his keychain. ‘What’s this one?’

  ‘It’s a Ferrari,’ Umesh said.

  Sartaj turned the car around with the tip of his finger, moved it back and forth on the table. It was a perfect little working model, with a steering wheel and little letters and numbers on the sides. ‘Wasn’t it a different one last time? A red one?’

  ‘Yes. That was a Porsche.’

  Sartaj nodded. ‘So you like the Ferrari better now?’

  Umesh raised both his hands, miming a baffled astonishment. ‘Arre, inspector saab,’ he said. ‘What, a man should have only one gaddi? A man needs more than that.’ The irony was as heavy as the innuendo. But he was very aware that he was being the naughty boy, and he was very beautiful, so it was impossible to be annoyed with him. Even for Kamala, who rolled her eyes but couldn’t keep the amusement fro
m her eyes.

  ‘So you actually have these cars?’ Sartaj said. It was a mean question, but Sartaj had to ask it. Umesh made him feel old. Once there had been a Sartaj who had wanted flashy women and flashy cars, many of them, and thought he deserved them.

  ‘You see,’ Umesh said. ‘Actually…’

  Kamala slapped Umesh’s shoulder. ‘Shut up,’ she said. And then, to Sartaj, ‘In his dreams he owns them. He buys six car magazines every month. He has posters on his wall.’

  ‘It’s my hobby,’ Umesh said, quite pious. ‘They are amazing machines.’ There was a low-slung fervour in his voice, the hushed kinetic energy of the true fanatic. ‘And anyway, you are quite wrong. On my wall there are no posters any more. There is a screen.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Kamala laughed. ‘The new film theatre.’

  ‘You have a film theatre in your house?’ Sartaj said. ‘With a projector and everything?’

  ‘No, not a film projector,’ Umesh said, with a tolerant smile for Sartaj’s ignorance of the new. ‘It’s a very high quality Sony DVD player, attached to an LCD projector. You get an image that is about fourteen feet across.’ Umesh held his arms out wide. ‘And it’s a better image than most of the cinemas have in this country. I also put in a new Sanyo amplifier, and Bose speakers. You turn up the sound on that, you can feel it here.’ His hand thumped on his chest, and his eyes were soggy with passion. ‘You should come over some time, watch a movie.’