Sultan of Delhi: Ascension

by Arnab Ray

  Mishra seemed to hesitate, struggling to form the words.

  ‘I know you didn’t come to take the guns,’ Arjun said. ‘You came to kill us. Someone put out a job in my name and you took it. Of course you would have taken the guns, but that wasn’t really why you were there.’

  ‘You have this all figured out, I see.’

  ‘I know who sent you. But still, I would like to hear the name from your lips.’

  The man stayed quiet, and one could see that he was fighting with himself.

  ‘Come on, out with it,’ Arjun urged. ‘The smell is killing me.’

  Mishra finally made his decision.

  ‘Sandhu. He told me to do it.’

  ‘Just Sandhu?’ Arjun asked.

  ‘Well, it was Jagan Seth who wanted you dead, and Sandhu was looking for a good man.’

  Arjun heard Bangali gasp audibly.

  ‘So you work with Sandhu?’ asked Arjun.

  Mishra nodded. ‘I provide him police protection when he moves randis over the border.’ He leered through the blood. ‘He lets me break a few in too. The asli chiknis.’

  ‘I don’t believe the madarchod,’ Bangali said. ‘He could be… trying to get us to fight among each other.’

  ‘No, he is right,’ said Arjun with a tinge of sadness. ‘Only Jagan Seth knew we were passing a consignment at the time. It could only have come from him. I knew it all along, I just wanted to be sure.’

  ‘But why? Why him? He brought us into this business. He is like a father to us. Okay, I know you are going to say I am talking filmy. But consider this. He owns this business, we make money for him. Why would he want to kill the ducks that lay the golden eggs?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t own the business any more. We do. We own the routes, we own the customers, we own the MLAs, we own the police, we own everything that’s worth owning. And what does he have? The trucks? His silly silver stick? For that he takes away most of our profits. This couldn’t have gone on.’

  Bangali still could not believe it. ‘But…’

  ‘Jagan Seth is smart. Sure he looks and talks like K.N. Singh from the movies, but a stupid man would never have gotten to where he is. He knows he serves no purpose and he knows we will realize that, if we haven’t done so already. So he did what anyone with half a brain would do. He struck first. Sandhu would get the business, and you and I would be killed in that field. And Sandhu, being Sandhu, would be easier to control. Not a bad plan.’

  Bangali seemed disconsolate. ‘I know he is a chutiya, I know that, but he was always…like a father. I just can’t…just can’t put this…’

  ‘There you go again. All filmy. There is no father, no brother, just people doing their business. It’s not personal, never is.’ ‘So now what?’ asked Bangali.

  ‘Now the loop closes.’

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean? The loop closes?’ ‘We make sure that Chottu’s soul rests in peace.’

  Arjun brought his gun out from his trousers, turned around and pointed it at Mishra.

  ‘But…but you promised…’ Mishra screamed, eyes open wide in anticipation of what was to come. He strained his body forward against his restraints and Arjun held his pose, letting the terror of impending death sink in before the bullet did.

  Then he fired.

  Mishra’s head jerked backwards, his jaw swung open, and then when his head flopped forward on to his chest, there was a fiery hole right between his eyes. Just like there had been in Chottu.

  ‘Yes, I know I promised,’ a fierce fire glowed in Arjun’s eyes. ‘I lied.’

  Bangali looked at the dead man and then back at Arjun.

  ‘I thought this was business. Nothing personal,’ Bangali said with a knowing smile.

  ‘I lied.’

  ‘What do you mean, we aren’t here to kill him?’ Bangali looked at Arjun with disbelief. ‘Then why, behenchod, have we been scoping out Sandhu since yesterday? And don’t tell me you are here to buy cows, please don’t tell me that.’

  They were at Sonepur, the field in front of them dotted with tents of various colours and sizes, some flat and spread out, some thin and high. Milling all around, with their smell and their sounds, were the animals, also of various colours and sizes – cows quietly grazing; goats in long obedient lines; camels on their haunches, gazing calmly around; elephants curling their trunks upwards. And then there were the humans outnumbering them all, a wild assortment of turbans, dhotis, lungis, long sticks, some out for a bargain, some out to sell, and most just to gape in awe, like they had for centuries from the times of Chandragupta Maurya.

  It was the largest animal fair in the country; some said it was the largest in the world – and Arjun and Bangali had been camping here since Thursday, out on Sandhu’s trail. He loved to buy exotic animals, and when the sun set that’s when the people dealing in animals of the illegal kind did their trade, near tents that only those in the know would come to find, and Arjun’s source had told him that Sandhu was in the market for a leopard.

  ‘What kind of a person buys a leopard?’ Arjun had asked, feeling hot and sweaty under the red turban swirled around his head.

  ‘The kind that is going to die soon,’ Bangali had replied. But now, just now, he had been told that Sandhu was not going to die.

  ‘We don’t kill him unless he does something really stupid,’ Arjun muttered while keeping his eyes on Sandhu, who stood a hundred yards away near a rickety refreshment trolley. Then Arjun asked, absent-mindedly, ‘What kind of person has an ice-lolly when it’s so cold outside? I suppose the same kind that keeps a leopard at home.’

  ‘Why? Why are we not killing him?’ Arjun could sense the rage growing inside Bangali, and that is why he had not told him so far. Bangali had a way of letting his heart get the better of him and acting drunk without having touched a drop. But now was the time to make the move and Bangali had to be told.

  ‘Because fighting is bad for business. Sandhu has his powerful friends, and if we drop him here, there will be a war. I don’t want that.’

  ‘So we are here to roll our pyjamas down and spread our gaand for him? Just because his friends are going to get hard? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘We are here to talk. And I am pretty sure Sandhu is here for that reason too.’ He turned towards Bangali. ‘The bastard knows we are somewhere nearby. He is waiting for us to show ourselves.’

  A small line of baby goats moved past them, the bells tied to their necks ringing together in a little symphony of death, for that was where they were heading.

  ‘Goats for sale. The best prices. Lovely, tender goats,’ the man herding them cried in a cheerful sing-song.

  ‘I don’t think he knows we are here,’ Bangali said. ‘Look at the gandu. He is standing, sucking a lolly like a little kid, without any guards anywhere. Let’s do it. Put a gun to his back, take him some place, and knife him to death.’

  Arjun did not reply, but kept watching the goats jingle by.

  ‘Did you hear what I just said?’

  ‘He has men. Two of them. See that moustache with the blue turban, staring at the udders of that cow. Him. And that man over there, with the beard, in the white shirt, the one who looks like he has not taken a bath since Independence. He has told them to stay back so that we do not get scared away, but the moment we approach, they will come.’

  ‘Well, we have our own men too. So why are we afraid?’ Bangali paused and then asked, ‘But how do you know those are his men? I don’t think they are, none of them are even looking in his direction.’

  ‘They were both there last night at the nautch tent. Keeping their distance from Sandhu just like they are today.’ One of the traditions at Sonepur were the huge nautch tents, where women danced on bamboo stages to live music from films, and this year the new song ‘Jhumka gira re’ had been very popular, before crowds of sweaty, drunk men shouting obscenities, the only wild animals at Sonepur who walked without a leash or a master.

  ‘These two were in that nautch
tent to watch breasts swing. Just like hundreds of others. How does that make them his bodyguards?’

  ‘Because they weren’t looking at the girls. They were looking at the crowd, and sometimes at Sandhu.’

  The man selling goats was now level with Sandhu, and Sandhu bent down to pet a goat. They had started talking, discussing prices.

  Bangali said, ‘Maybe they like men. Maybe they were looking at Sandhu’sgaand. I don’t know. But that doesn’t make them security.’

  ‘Men who like men won’t buy tickets to see women dance. If they want to see men, well, they can stand outside here like us. Watching men.’ Arjun smiled. ‘Plus both are carrying guns.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Bangali sounded less sure of himself now.

  Arjun tightened his shawl around himself. His hand gripped tightly his pistol, hidden inside.

  ‘We walk towards him. And let me do the talking. Understand? You just keep a watch on those two.’

  ‘What about our men? They are around here too, tailing Sandhu.’

  ‘I have told them about Sandhu’s bodyguards. They’ve got them covered.’

  ‘So why am I here? What am I supposed to do?’

  Arjun had started walking towards Sandhu. ‘You are going to stay calm. You are not going to kill anyone. You are not going to break any bones.’

  Bangali grumbled, ‘As if I was the one who shot that inspector,’ as he started walked along.

  Despite the cold, Arjun could feel a bead of sweat slide down his back. His pace quickened. The goat seller was still standing, trying to convince Sandhu to make a purchase, while he stuck to whatever it was he had offered for the goat.

  Now Sandhu had seen them. He turned his head to the right towards white-shirt and then to the left towards blue-turban. They started closing the gap.

  Bangali muttered under his breath, ‘You were right. Those two are his paid dogs.’

  They were getting close. Sandhu once again turned his head to the right and to the left, noiselessly ordering his men to hurry up. Taking advantage of that momentary distraction, the goat seller stepped to the side of Sandhu and pressed a gun to his waist. His guards had stopped moving because other men blocked their path now, men with intent, Arjun’s men.

  Bangali muttered, ‘Isn’t that lovely?’

  They were in front of Sandhu. Despite that thick beard and the impassive face, his eyes betrayed fear.

  ‘We are here to talk,’ said Arjun.

  ‘If you wanted an ice-lolly, you just had to ask.’ Sandhu was eyeing his surroundings, looking for a way out. There was none. ‘Why have a gun at my side and another pointed at me through the shawl if you just want to talk?’

  ‘You were expecting me, weren’t you?’

  ‘The boys say you have a liking for elephants. Since you married one, I suppose I would expect you to be at Sonepur looking for a mistress,’ Sandhu quipped.

  ‘As I said, we are here to talk,’ Arjun said. ‘And I know you want to talk too. You don’t want a fight. Neither do I. We are businessmen, you and I.’

  ‘Kings fight. Businessmen deal’ Sandhu said morosely, looking around, and seeing Arjun’s men everywhere.

  ‘Why? Why did you do it?’ Arjun asked.

  Sandhu shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my idea. It was Jagan Seth’s. I just made the connection to Mishra.’ He cast a sideways glance at the man who still held the gun to his side. ‘He was a powerful man, that Mishra. Heard you made boti kabab out of him.’

  Boti kabab was slang for cutting up a corpse into small pieces and then burning them with acid.

  ‘I know it wasn’t your idea.’ Arjun still kept his gun pointed from below the shawl. ‘That’s why I don’t want to make this personal. I want to propose a truce. Between you and me.’

  ‘A truce can’t be made at the end of guns.’

  ‘How about over dinner? You choose where.’

  ‘Why not here? Say what you want. And put down the guns.’

  ‘It’s the smell of all these animals. Doesn’t help me think, doesn’t let me talk.’

  Seeing Sandhu still deliberating, Arjun said, ‘You want out of this mess as much as I do. It’s not like we will be stroking each other’s lunds tomorrow, but we do need to have some sort of understanding. Unless we both want to settle it as kings, right here and right now.’

  Sandhu nodded. The numbers did not make sense. He was overwhelmed. He dropped the ice-lolly which had melted away, and stomped on the stick with his foot. ‘Friendly Hotel. It’s about half an hour’s walk. That okay with you two?’

  Bangali looked at Arjun once before breaking his silence. ‘I heard that the mutton curry at Friendly Hotel is good.’ He bent down and patted the goat just like Sandhu had been doing before they came. ‘Seeing that you were in the mood for goat today…’ and then he thrust his pelvis forward.

  ‘As a sign of good faith, I will let you keep the gun that you have. I will also keep mine. Bangali is unarmed,’ Arjun said for Sandhu’s benefit.

  Bangali was enjoying this. ‘What good is a gun when you can’t bring it out the moment a beautiful goat walks past?’

  Arjun gestured to Bangali to stop. This was going to be a simple business meeting, not a playground rock-fight. But then someone still did need to lay down the law.

  ‘Don’t try anything funny on the way or at the hotel,’ Arjun said sombrely. ‘Because if you do, it won’t be mutton curry for dinner. It will be boti kabab.’

  5

  When December begins, it starts getting cold in Delhi. It sits down on you, like a cold wet fog of pain, early in the morning and late at night, making your joints tingle and creak, if you are the kind that has arthritis.

  Jagan Seth was that kind.

  He was pushing seventy, and he hated winter, for the allopathy and the copper bracelet and the homoeopathy globules that made no difference. This particular winter he had hated more, because he had given Sandhu a job to do and the idiot had goofed it up, that useless moron. Maybe he should have asked Arjun to kill Sandhu, not that it would have solved his problem, but at least Arjun would have done the job right. Now Arjun and that insufferable Nilendu were still alive, though Sandhu had sworn on his mother’s head only yesterday that both of them would be dead by this week. Everything had been planned perfectly this time and Sandhu was going to do the job himself.

  Let’s see how that plays out, Jagan Seth thought.

  But right now, as the car sped towards one of his ‘other’ houses, he felt a strangely comforting feeling of warmth, soothing in a way no balm could ever be.

  Sandhu had brought a new girl for him today, after more than six months.

  Sandhu transported hundreds of women every year, the old man thought to himself, and yet he can get only one every year that catches my fancy. The madarchod.

  After all, his requirements were simple. Sixteen, not a day older. Beautiful. Perfect skin. But most importantly, untouched by another human hand.

  Flowers. He loved flowers. And nowadays it seemed like flowers didn’t come easy even in a garden.

  He closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat, strumming his fingers over the silver cane, sinking into memories of days gone by. The screams. The cries for mercy. The stifled sobs. The glassy stare of acceptance. The head turned to the side. The feel of smooth skin, of his saliva slobbering all over their face, mixing with their tears, salty. The tightness, what in the world could be more comforting, what indeed could be more beautiful, not seen, not heard but felt, just felt.

  And then, just when everything had cooled down, he would turn them around. Like a stained bedsheet.

  How many had he taken? Sixty, seventy, a hundred? How did it matter? It was all one experience really, a single string of pleasure on which all these flowers had been strung. And tonight he would add another to his garland.

  How would she be? He could only imagine. Jagan Seth reached to the side and there on the seat was a garland of rajanigandha flowers.

  Mala was Sandhu’s main madam. She
would have been to his house earlier in the evening, setting it all up in the way he liked it. First he would have a meal, pure vegetarian. Then two glasses of almond milk for stamina. He had never needed tablets or herbs to make himself powerful. Not when he was twenty-five and not now. Clean thinking. High living. That’s what the British used to teach in their schools. And he had lived that lesson.

  He thought again about Mala. Mala was a most efficient lady, about his age, and knew exactly what Jagan Seth wanted. The girl would be dressed in a red wedding sari and Mala knew exactly how to make a girl look demure, innocent and yet lush. She also personally looked after the other arrangements, including his bed which would be flowered up like it was the night of marriage, garlands hanging from the posts and roses thrown on the fresh sheets, for he wanted the experience to be special for the girl too. After all, losing one’s virginity was something to remember.

  The woman who had worked in the house before Mala had been a scatterbrain. It was on her watch that that horrible thing had happened. After his young virgin’s wedding night, rather than lying peacefully with Jagan, as the others did, this girl had gone up to the roof, because that blasted woman had forgotten to lock the door to the stairs, and flung herself down. Worse, she hadn’t even had the good sense to die, just gotten herself bent and broken and made a mess of the flower grove. God had been kind that this was during the crazy days of 1948 or else there would have been a lot of trouble with the police. They all knew what went on here but this would have been a bit much for even them to ignore. Not that it would really have mattered, except that he would have had to pay through his nose to make the stink go away.

  Then Mala had come along, after which there had been no accidents.

  The gates rolled open and Jagan Seth’s car drove in on to the gravel. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. It was going to be a long night.

  The driver opened the door and stepped aside. He was a new guy, sharp and well heeled, definitely of good birth. He never allowed any of those lower castes to get anywhere close to the house, unless it was to tend the garden or to clean, though it had become increasingly difficult to maintain that discipline.