Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

'Silence! Silence!' the loudspeaker roared, and in the abrupt hush Zoya Mirza descended on the set. She strode in, actually, from the left, but she may as well have floated down from the Technicolor heavens in a rain of fragrant blossoms. She was very tall, slim and strong, but hidden in a shimmering gold wrap, and her hair was loose and very long, and the long sweep of her neck made Sartaj breathless.

'Baap re,' Kamble whispered. 'Mai re.'

Yes, Sartaj believed in the enchantment of cinema all over again. They watched as Zoya talked to the director and two assistants, as Vivek fussed over her hair and face. A woman knelt and did something to the lower edge of Zoya's skirt, which reached just half-way to the knee. Another pair of actors came up, an older couple in royal robes, and the director spoke to them and Zoya, making angular gestures with his hands. Kamble was whispering their names, the names of the actors and their pedigrees, their performances and their successes. Then Zoya shrugged off her wrap, and Kamble ceased altogether. It was the kind of jungli-princess outfit that Sartaj remembered seeing on calendars in his childhood, with a bikini top in some soft fawn leather held together by strings at the back, and a matching skirt which dipped far below her navel in front and swept back over her hips, really quite tight. The Maharaja and Maharani took up positions by the throne, and Zoya turned towards them and walked, and the endless curvature of her hip squeezed at Sartaj's throat. Yes. The set was fake, but Zoya Mirza wasn't. Of course Mary and Jana were right about the multiple procedures, the miracles of technology that had achieved her wondrous world-class beauty, but Sartaj didn't care. Zoya Mirza was artificial, and her lie was more true than nature itself. She was real.

This was the scene: the princess, who was unaware of her own royal descent, came to the grand capital city and the exalted court, in search of a mysterious warrior who had wooed her on the wild slopes of her own familiar mountains, and then disappeared. And here she was in the grand courts of the Maharaja, who was – unknown as yet to her – a usurper and the murderer of her own trusting parents. There were two lines of dialogue: 'Who are you, kanya?' and 'I am the daughter of the Sardar Matho, who rules the forest to the west of your borders.' The second line, which was shot first, took eight takes and forty-five minutes. Zoya said it striding forwards, up the shallow bank of stairs that led to the throne. She was quite heroic. Then there was a twenty-minute pause as the camera was shifted. Vivek offered more tea and biscuits. Madam didn't want to be disturbed, still. She was working.

'This story is like that show on television,' Kamble said. 'What was it? With all the rajas and ranis and double-crosses and spies?'

' Chandrakanta ,' Sartaj said. 'Good show.'

'This is much bigger than Chandrakanta ,' Vivek said, with considerable pride. 'The special effects in Chandrakanta were so cheap-looking. We have two Hollywood experts flying down for the climax. And anyway, the writers told me that they took much more from Bankim Chandra.'

'Who?' Sartaj said.

'Some old Bengali writer,' Vivek said. 'He wrote a novel called Ananda Math .'

'I thought that had already been made into a Bengali film,' Kamble said. He was crunching down the coconut biscuits.

'Never heard of it,' Sartaj said. It was pleasant to stand around a film set and discuss shots and special effects and dialogue and old Bengali novels. Even Kamble was no longer impatient. Looking at Zoya Mirza was more than time-pass, it was soothing in some deep way.

The reverse angle shot, on the Maharaja, took only two takes. Then there was a great movement and shouting again, and lights and reflectors were moved about. Vivek followed Zoya off the set, and came hurrying back ten minutes later. 'Come,' he said. 'Madam will see you now.'

In close-up, she was still extraordinary. The make-up was a little garish, but Sartaj understood that was for the lights and for the camera. Between the deadly keenness of her cheekbones and the plump fullness of her lips, there was a perfect tension that had nothing to do with make-up. Sartaj and Kamble sat next to each other in Zoya's trailer, on a deep leather couch built into the wall. She had emerged from a private dressing room, a pristine white gown wrapped around her, and was perched on a chair. Vivek stood next to the stairwell, quite rosy with his admiration for Madam.

'That jungli skirt looked wonderful,' he told her, but with an eye on Sartaj.

'Yes, very,' Sartaj said.

'Didi, they are big fans,' Vivek said. 'They came to me through Stephanie, you remember her? All because they wanted to meet you.'

Zoya wore the kind of smile that people used to attention and power put on to indicate humbleness. Sartaj had seen it a lot on politicians. 'I'm going to play a police officer next year,' she said, 'in Ghai-sahib's new movie. I am a fan of the police also. I appeared at a charity premiere for the Policeman's Association when I was Miss India.'

'I remember. We need your help again.'

'Of course I will try to help in any way possible. But I am very busy over the next six months…'

'We're not here to ask for a personal appearance,' Kamble said, very quietly. He didn't move at all, but his shoulders seemed to swell up a bit, and he was suddenly dangerous. It was all in the dull flat of his eyes, in the rigidity of his jaw. 'Or for a donation.'

Zoya caught the change of mood instantly, but Vivek laughed through it. 'They just want autographs, Didi,' he said.

Sartaj put a hand on Vivek's forearm, pulled himself up. 'We just want to ask you a question or two,' he said to Zoya, taking a step up to her. She didn't like him coming closer to her, but she refused to flinch. He whispered into her ear, 'About Ganesh Gaitonde.'

'Vivek,' she said crisply, 'wait outside.'

'Didi?'

'Wait outside. And I don't want to be disturbed.'

Sartaj nudged Vivek out of the door, shut it in his wide-eyed face and pulled the red curtain firmly over the inset window. Zoya had now figured out that she should be outraged, and she stood up. She drew back her shoulders, and looked very fine, but she had to duck her head, under the slope of the low roof. Sartaj thought it spoiled the effect a little.

'Why would you ask me anything about a man like that?' she said. 'What do you mean by this?'

'Don't bother,' Kamble said. He had his hands on his thighs, and his feet planted wide apart. 'We know everything. We know about that Jojo. We knew Gaitonde flew you out to various locations.'

'Madam,' Sartaj said, 'we just need a little co-operation from you.'

'Listen, I was a model, and I met lots of people –'

Kamble's sneer was magnificent, he looked to Sartaj like a cynical toad. He made a growling laugh that grated up Sartaj's forearms, and levelled a forefinger at Zoya. 'You listen,' Kamble said. 'You may think you are some big film star, you can get away with anything. We didn't want to embarrass you by having you come down to the station, so we came here. But don't imagine that you can escape us. Don't think we are idiots. We sent Sanjay Dutt to jail, you can end up there also. Six months in a little cell without all this air-conditioning, and all your charbi will come off.'

'Bas, bas, enough,' Sartaj said to Kamble. For Zoya, he had his gentle, understanding face. 'Madam, I know you are afraid. And you want to keep your life private. That is your right. But he's right, we know too much about your link to this Gaitonde for you to hide anything from us. We have records that prove he paid for your travel. We have copies of your old passport, under the name Jamila Mirza. We have copies of plane tickets.'

Kamble pulled a sheaf of copies out of a brown envelope and waved them at her. 'We know about Singapore,' he said. 'Here.'