Sultan of Delhi: Ascension

by Arnab Ray

  Arjun clapped.

  ‘See, uncle, I said I can do it in ten minutes.’ His smile was an exact replica of Bangali’s, and Arjun felt that familiar lump in his throat every time he saw it.

  ‘Very impressive. Who taught you this?’ Arjun took the transistor in his hand, almost trying to convince himself that it was not a trick. A seven-year-old had actually done this.

  ‘Subayu-da.’ His eyes lit up with a spark that reminded Arjun of Nayantara. ‘He is an engineer. He is my friend.’ The last sentence Arijit said with some pride.

  ‘How many times did he show you this?’

  ‘Twice. I picked it up the first time. The second was just to confirm.’ Then he added, ‘I understand some of it too. The principles. Subayu-da explained it to me.’

  ‘So can you teach me?’ asked Arjun. ‘I would love to learn.’

  Arijit flicked up an eyebrow. ‘If I teach you, what will you give me?’

  Arjun thought for a second. ‘Anything you want. Swiss chocolates. American toys. Anything.’

  Arijit grimaced. ‘No. Not those. I want to learn how to repair cars.’

  Arjun looked at him for a while. ‘Who told you I know how to repair cars?’

  ‘Ma said you are very good. That when you were my age you used to repair foreign cars.’

  Arjun scuffled Arijit’s hair. ‘Quite a bit older. But tell me why not a nice remote-controlled toy car?’

  Arijit shook his head wisely. ‘No, uncle. Things get lost. They break, they grow old. But when you learn something, it stays.’

  Arjun nodded. It had taken him years to learn this. And yet this little boy…

  Nayantara broke his reverie, entering the room holding a tray with two cups of tea and an assortment of biscuits. They were at her home now, so she wore her sari demurely wrapped around herself, and yet the moment she came in, Arjun was instantly transported to that feeling of ‘I must have her’. He felt guilty immediately because Arijit was there. She seemed to have caught his glance and, putting the tray down on the coffee table, she said, ‘Tubai, your friends are downstairs playing badminton. Why don’t you join them?’

  He said eagerly, ‘I was showing uncle my transistor trick. Can I show him my magic now?’

  ‘No, not now. Later. Go down and play.’

  He rushed out, jumping over the threshold, towards the stairs, with Nayantara calling out, ‘Wear your shoes. And don’t take them off once you are down there. I can’t be cleaning up after your dirty feet.’

  Arijit’s ‘yes ma’ was lost as he ran down the stairs eagerly, the patter of his feet trailing away.

  ‘I wish you would not look at me that way when he is around,’ Nayantara said while stirring the tea.

  ‘I…I couldn’t control my eyes…anyway, he is too young to understand,’ Arjun said apologetically.

  ‘Maybe on this. But Arijit is wise beyond his years. His teacher had him tested. Some IQ test or something she said. It was off the charts. Anyway, I am worried about him.’

  ‘Why?’ Arjun took the cup in his hand. ‘I am worried about my sons. For good reasons. Because one is stupid and the other…well, I don’t know what he is. Why should you be worried for Arijit?’

  ‘Because people talk. They ask him who you are. He says “uncle”. The older boys smile. He repeats you are his uncle and doesn’t understand why they are smiling or what they are trying to tell him. But he will. Any day now.’

  Arjun took a sip and then put the cup on the saucer. Nayantara hated wet marks on the coffee table.

  ‘I thought you wanted to come to this place because rich people don’t talk.’

  ‘Yes, call me naïve.’ Nayantara leaned forward and Arjun tried to look away from the hint of cleavage. ‘Now I see that people talk everywhere. Even here on Ballygunje Circular Road.’

  ‘As bad as your old place?’

  ‘Just that the neighbours won’t knock on my door and ask me to leave. You think a woman who says she is a widow and yet keeps herself dolled up, who does not have a husband but is still rich enough to live in a place like this, and who has a gentleman who does not look Bengali visiting her once in a while, yet her son calls him “uncle”, is not suspicious? That it would pass notice?’

  Nayantara and her son lived in one of Calcutta’s most posh localities, in a new block of ten-storey buildings on Ballygunje Circular Road, the housing complex of choice of the top executives of the city’s private companies. Arjun didn’t quite like coming here, instead preferring to have Nayantara over at Grand Hotel, where he could do what he wanted with her without her fretting over ‘Tubai will hear’. But the ayah for Arijit had decided to skip out of town right when Arjun was in it, which meant the Grand was out for now.

  ‘Who is this Subayu-da whom Arijit was speaking of?’

  ‘Do I have to tell you?’ Nayantara asked, and Arjun looked up to see the hint of a smile on her lips.

  ‘I guess I have to, since I am your paid keep,’ Nayantara said and there was no malice in her voice. ‘ He is Mr Chatterjee’s son. They live upstairs. Smart boy with radios and those things and Tubai simply adores him, though I know perfectly well why he hangs around Arijit, because I can feel his eyes burn into my behind the moment I turn around. Not smart in that way. His father is smarter though. When he watches, he doesn’t make it so obvious.’ She bit into the thin arrowroot biscuit nimbly.

  ‘Wait, didn’t your last landlord look at you in that bad way too?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Now father. Son. Who in Calcutta doesn’t look at you in a bad way?’

  ‘Jealous?’ she asked with a naughty arch of an eyebrow, and he knew she was watching him with those probing eyes of hers. He continued to look down into the cup. ‘Come on now, he is just a boy. And you know I like men. The rough types. The one with the loaded guns. Not scrawny engineering college kids with their heads in their books and their hands inside their shorts. Nor their father with bellies and a visiting card that says “Assistant Director, Labour Relations”.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s right,’ he said, trying hard to hide his irritation. He heard Nayantara giggle. ‘Why would you let this Subayu chap come here when you know his motives are not honourable, unless you like the attention?’

  ‘Oh ho. What an honourable man we have here. You can watch my behind too if you want now. I won’t mind.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like doing it here, in your house.’

  ‘Tubai won’t be back for an hour, at least.’ She had gotten up from the sofa, closed the main door with a firm click, and was moving towards him slowly. He was sitting with his back against the wall, reclining on the divan and watching her movements. Her walk was now maddeningly sensuous, that exquisitely curved waist tracing lines through the air, challenging him to get up and pin her to the wall.

  He stayed in his place. He had to appear to make it difficult for her. For hadn’t she denied it to him when he had already been here for a day?

  ‘No, let’s wait till we can get to the hotel.’

  ‘Aww, come on.’ She sat demurely next to him now. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t want to. Even Subayu has some sense of shame. You are shameless.’ She moved her mouth to the side of his neck, snaked her tongue out and traced a line slowly down. He shivered. His hands reached for her breasts from below and they were just as familiarly full as he had remembered them. He kneaded and pushed them together, and then attacked her lips with his tongue.

  She whispered, between kisses, ‘No need to go inside to the bedroom. Let’s do it here.’

  They did, moaning and squealing gently with pleasure.

  It was an almost an hour before they got their breath back. Arjun realized that the transistor had been on all this time. The musical programme had been interrupted by an announcement.

  The prime minister had declared a state of Emergency.

  Nayantara buttoned up her blouse and draped the sari tightly over her chest.

  ‘Is this bad news?’ she asked, concern in
her voice.

  He nodded gravely, ‘things are going to change now, and change…change is never good for business.’

  Without danger, Bangali used to say, one becomes like a lion in a zoo – the anger is gone and so is the hunger as you sit on your haunches and children throw peanuts at you all day long, growling from time to time from force of habit. Now that he no longer ran guns, Arjun had sometimes felt like that zoo-kept lion, well fed and satisfied. This business – of wheeling and dealing through the corridors of Delhi – required smarts, a nose for opportunity and the courage to go all in, but there was never a sense that you were in any kind of harm, the adrenaline never flowed, the stomach never tightened, and you became fat and lazy.

  Well, here it was again.

  Danger.

  And somehow now that it was right there in front of him, he

  did not quite jump at it as he had thought he would. For the first time in his life, he had not seen the danger coming. For the first time in his life, he had not been prepared. Not for Emergency, which had now been going on for three months, and definitely not for this man.

  It had all started with a phone call. His secretary Marie D’Souza, a free-spirited Goan girl with a nice telephone voice and an air of quiet efficiency, had transferred the call to his office.

  There was a lady calling on behalf of her boss to fix an appointment. When she mentioned his name, Arjun immediately sat up in his chair.

  Ranvijay Pratap Singh.

  It was a name he had heard many times before. But not by the full appellation. Simply RP. The initials were enough.

  RP’s father, Jayant Pratap, had practised criminal law at the Supreme Court. He was known for being a ruthless trial lawyer and for his connections with those with khaandaani or family wealth, rulers of princely states and old business families. He controlled the sluice gates of campaign cash, so come election season, politicians of all sizes and shapes would sit with begging bowls at his durbar on Aurangzeb Road. Jayant Pratap had died of a heartattack in ’68, and the rumour was that his heart had given way when he was planting the flag in one of his innumerable conquests. Then the empire had passed on to his eldest son.

  Ranvijay Pratap Singh. RP.

  And now RP wanted to meet him.

  Arjun had wanted an appointment for Tuesday but the voice at the other end of the line insisted that it be tomorrow. Delhi was as stratified as it had been during the time of the Mughals and RP, very obviously, expected his pedigree to be respected, and so their meeting had to be at his convenience. Arjun had half a mind to tell the secretary that it had to be next week or not at all. Strength had to be met with strength, such was the way of the city, but he decided to give RP some ground, figuring something big might be around the corner.

  He was wrong. And he was right.

  Aurangzeb Road was the address of choice for the wellconnected Delhi insider, known for its gulmohur-tree-lined sidewalks and iron gates and high walls that protected the massive bungalows. It was in a neighbourhood referred to as Lutyens Delhi, as much a community of genteel well-heeled men and women who met over glasses of champagne and laughed at the foibles of the masses they ruled or commiserated over their backwardness, as it was a metaphor for the power centre within the power centre of Delhi. And there Arjun found himself, being driven through the enormous gates, past the guards, and having his driver park the car on the gravel.

  A guard dressed in a smart white uniform led Arjun to what he figured was RP’s late father’s chambers, a cavernous room full of large-backed leather chairs, framed photos of JP with prime ministers and presidents, and floor-to-ceiling glass cases packed with red and black legal tomes. He took a seat in front of the large mahogany table and waited. And waited. Not that he was surprised, for it was just like Delhi to keep those that are less important waiting, for nothing shows power more than the ability to waste someone else’s time.

  An hour late for his appointment, Ranvijay Pratap ambled in. The name might have been regal and the slow walk of arrogance even more so, but RP looked like no king. He was a small man, five feet and a little more, with an ordinary face sought to be made extraordinary through a rather grand moustache, an expensive Nehru jacket with gold buttons and gold-framed round glasses. His eyes were hard, cruel and smoky like a cat’s, reminding Arjun for a second of the eyes of the inspector who killed Chottu all those years ago.

  ‘You are lucky I am not my father.’ RP leaned back into his large leather chair. ‘If you had remained sitting when he came into the room, it would have been the end of our meeting. Which would also mean the end of you.’

  ‘Well, if your secretary had told me that I would have to stand up, I would have done that.’

  ‘Aah, spunk. I like that in a man. There is a Yiddish word for it. Chutzpah.’ He cracked the knuckles of his right hand absentmindedly. ‘I assume that you already know who I am and what I do. You would be a fool not to and I know you are no fool. You obviously don’t know what Yiddish is, but you do know how to win contracts for the Israelis.’

  This was exactly what Arjun had thought the meeting was about. In the battle for the military equipment purchase, he had, without really knowing it, hurt RP. He couldn’t but help feel a little bit of pride.

  RP massaged each joint of his left hand, slowly and with deliberation. ‘Bhatia, I am a peaceful man, I don’t like to fight, especially when there is so much around for so few of us. As long as you would have stayed in your little box somewhere, I would have let you be. But now you want to play with the big boys and you don’t just want to play, you want to try to take their toys away. That I can’t let you do. Not in this town. Not in my playground.’

  Arjun had been threatened before. Many times and by many powerful people. A direct threat from a man this high in the food chain meant he had drawn blood. The first thing you should do when threatened, Arjun had learned over the years, is to make a counter-threat, but it should sound exactly the opposite.

  ‘I am sure if we make a sincere attempt, we can stay out of each other’s corners. I think that would be in both of our interests.’

  JP lifted a paperweight from the table and started spinning it casually. ‘I agree. But what about the disrespect?’

  ‘Disrespect?’ asked Arjun, knowing that they were moving to the second round of the dance.

  ‘The way you talk, the way you sit, the way you look at me as if we are equals, the way you didn’t get up when I entered the room, the way you didn’t even bother to find out who was behind the French. Disrespect is the only word I can use. You are an upstart, and I don’t like upstarts. People far bigger than you have sat on the floor here with their heads down and their hands folded. That’s the kind of respect my name commands. You need to show me that respect, and as I see you are not going to give it on your own, I will take it from you.’ He raised his finger and said, ‘A few months ago, the country was going to the dogs. But now with the Emergency, things are as they should have been, the way my father always wanted. The country is now in the hands of good men. Now good men finally have the power to put the black marketers into jail and hang the hoarders by their balls. No dalal reporters to get you sympathy, and no commie whores running about crying human rights. No evidence, no charge sheet, no witnesses. Just phone calls. One call from me, Bhatia, and we throw you in under MISA. If you continue to show me disrespect, then that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Hard labour in Tihar, your house and your cash seized, your family on the roads. If you think I am making this up, think of this. The princes could not keep their purses, national netas could not keep their behinds out of jail and, as we speak, the Bombay mafia are weaving chairs while wearing black-and-white uniforms. And you…you are just a little gunrunner who has had a good run of luck.’

  RP pointed to the big black phone in front of him.

  ‘But I don’t want to make that call. I don’t want you in jail. Instead I want there to be peace. Now I am sure you are thinking, if this man could really do what he says he can, w
hy hasn’t he? Why is he offering me a way out? You would be right to wonder why. There is something you have that I want, and because you have that, you get to sit in that seat. Now I am going to ask you a question. If you lie to me, I will take it as more disrespect because I know part of the answer. So here it is. Do you know where the Raja of Pratapgarh – and I know you know which Pratapgarh I am talking about – buried his family treasure?’

  This Arjun had not anticipated. This question, of all the things in the world. No. He hadn’t seen it coming.

  RP was right, Arjun knew that. With the Emergency, if someone as powerful as RP took a personal interest in his ruin, there was little Arjun could do. The Maintenance of Internal Security Act, or MISA as it was known, allowed people to be thrown into jail without formal charges and for the authorities to search and seize without warrant. The newspapers had been blacked out, the government controlled the airwaves, and spies and turncoats were everywhere. Arjun’s money and his contacts could not save him, not from this and not now.

  And this man wanted the Pratapgarh treasure.

  Arjun had heard hushed whispers, that with the Emergency ongoing they, whoever ‘they’ were was never made clear, were going for the hoards of jewels, gold, silver, cash and diamonds that kings of erstwhile princely states, small and large, had hidden away from the eyes of the government. Long cavalcades of vehicles, or so the whispers went, were moving seized wealth away to where no one knew.

  The Raja of Pratapgarh was the king of a small princely state, one of the hundreds that had been assimilated into India after independence. He had a taste for the latest guns and many years ago Arjun had been one of his suppliers, and they had struck up a friendship. One day, he had called Arjun up into the old music room at his home, and there between fits of coughing and pulls on the hookah, had told him about a problem of his. His estranged son, the Raja had come to learn, was planning to run away with the family treasure. The Raja was sure that his son was close to figuring out where it was hidden and that he had to move it some place safe. Since he did not know who among his own men could be trusted, he wanted Arjun and Bangali to arrange for the transport of the treasure to a place in the woods, and bury it in the backyard of an old abandoned temple. Arjun had not wanted the job, but since the Raja was an old customer and a good man, Arjun had gotten five trusted men to move the treasure. He had thought it would be a small amount, made to appear more important than it was by the paranoia of an old man whose glory days had passed him by.