Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

'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 back, 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.