Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

'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.