Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

'Yes, yes,' Jojo said. 'Just hold on. I got a really good one on Friday. I was saving it for you.'

I could hear her rooting about through her shelves. The letters came from all over the country, but especially from the north, from places like 'Azadnagar, Maithon Farm, Dhanbad', and 'Asabtpura, Moradabad', and 'Mangaon, Dist. Raigad', and 'Mallik Tola, Banka, Bihar'. Some Hindi paper out of Delhi had plagiarized a Times of India Sunday article about modelling, complete with pictures of a couple of women who had come to Bombay from small towns and had become successful models and actresses. In this article, the paper had listed Jojo as one of the model co-ordinators who worked with new people. And the letters had started arriving. They came in a steady trickle that grew into a gush as the article was copied and duplicated and stolen by other papers. The letters were mostly from men, and Jojo and I had speculated about why women didn't write more often. Jojo thought that the girls were probably afraid of receiving a reply at home. Jojo said, what if the father opened a letter from me telling the girl to come to Bombay? She said, the girls just run away. Or sometimes they win a local beauty contest and talk one of the parents into coming to Bombay with them. Nowadays even the parents hear the lakhs jingling in their dreams, so they come.

'Okay, Gaitonde,' Jojo said. 'Here it is. This one is from village Chhabilapur, post office Gobindpur, district Begu Sarai.'

'Where?'

'Bihar, baba.'

'What is it with these Biharis?'

'They're good-looking people, they're intelligent, they're ambitious and they're survivors. Now be quiet and listen.'

'Yes, yes. Tell me.'

Her reading of Hindi was slow and painful, she had only learnt to speak it after she had reached Bombay. And she had learnt to read – what she could – even later. She'd got better at Hindi from reading letters to me. Before she had told me about these letters, she used to stack them up unopened behind a cupboard and throw them away once a week. But after she had told me about them, I had made her read one to me, and then another. Now she cast an eye over each one, and saved the best for me. 'This one,' she said, 'starts with the usual opening. He read about the Mr International contest in a paper, and my company was mentioned in the article. He wants to know how he can enter the world of modelling.'

'Arre, read it, Jojo.'

'Gaitonde, his Hindi is really difficult and northern, full of hum and humara pata and kasht karein and all that.'

'Just read it.'

'Okay. I liked this one because he makes lists. Languages known: Hindi, English, Magahi, Maithili. His name, by the way, is Sanjay Kumar.' The amusement was already gurgling in her voice. 'Sanjay Kumar does not want to send an ordinary biodata. So he has added a "Favourites List". Favourite flower: Rose. Favourite heroes: Anil Kapoor, Salman Khan, Aamir Khan. Favourite heroines: Rani Mukherjee, Kajol, Aishwarya Rai.'

'Why does he think you need to know this?'

'Who knows? Listen, Gaitonde – favourite films: Karan Arjun, Sholay, Dilwalle Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, Pardes . Favourite foreign places: London, Switzerland, New Zealand.'

'The bastard has never left Chabillapur.'

'He's seen New Zealand in the movies, Gaitonde. His father bought a VCD player for the family, they watch films every day. Favourite creams: Fairever, Pond's Cold Cream. Favourite perfume: Rexona. Favourite soap: Lux, Pear's and Pear's Face Wash. Favourite shampoos: Clinic All-Clear and Nyle Herbal Shampoo. Favourite hair oil: Dabur Mahabrahmraj Hair Oil.' She was laughing so hard now that she could barely read. 'Favourite powder: Denim and Nycil. Favourite shaving set: Denim and Old Spice. Favourite toothpaste: Colgate Gel Blue and Aquafresh. Favourite jeans: Levis. Favourite cars: Cielo, Tata Safari, Maruti Zen, Maruti 800, Ferrari 360 Spider.'

'This little maderchod has not even smelt a Ferrari in bhenchod district Begu Sarai. They don't even have chutiya roads there which are worthy of being called roads.'

'He's done his research, Gaitonde. Listen, listen.'

Listening to Sanjay Kumar's lists gave me a queer feeling in my belly, a soft, slipping panic in my veins. Of course he was funny. Jojo read out his lists and we laughed. I listened to her laugh and I laughed some more. But still there was this unnameable, endless plummeting in my chest. I didn't want to tell Jojo about it, but even if I had wanted to, if I had tried to, I wouldn't have known what to call it. I had never been to Bihar, but I knew exactly what sort of district Begu Sarai was, what village Chhabilapur looked like. There was one ruptured road winding through the fields, and muddy little kachcha lanes leading off to the clumps of huts and houses. There was something called a primary school, which was really a bunch of children sitting on the patio of the local Shiva temple, with a teacher – when there was a teacher – calling out the alphabet. There was a long wall bordering the sarpanch's orchards, and advertisements for engine lubricant and seed on this wall. There was a family of labourers squatting by the pond, waiting to be paid for the day's work. There was a three-storeyed college, with ranks of loafing students in the stained corridors. Outside, the motorcycles of the rich boys, the merchants' sons, the landowners' sons. Overhead, a vacant sky. Somehow, in this village, in this district, Sanjay Kumar had gathered the elements of his lists, he had put them together. He had written it all down. How? From borrowed newspapers, from second-hand magazines? From television, watched at a friend's house between power cuts? He had prepared his letter, then copied it out in fair, and sent it off to Bombay. Thinking of Sanjay Kumar bent over his letter, under a lantern, this is what made me queasy.

'At the very end of the letter,' Jojo said, 'after he signs off, he adds a request.' She snorted. 'He lists English as one of his languages, up front in his letter. But at the end, he writes, "I await your speedy and kind response. Please answer my letter in Hindi only." This Sanjay Kumar is not very smart. Or he thinks model co-ordinators in Bombay are chutiyas.'

'Who would dare to think you are a chutiya, Jojo? No, no. The poor boy is just trying to move ahead in the world. Remember, you were there once.'

'I was never such a gaandu as this. Sending letters to Bombay. Wanting replies in Hindi. Listen, I've been in the business for a while now. I have a feeling for people now, for who moves ahead and who doesn't. And I'm telling you, this one doesn't have a chance. Even if he looks like Hrithik Roshan, he doesn't have a chance. If he comes to Bombay, he'll be eaten up.'

I couldn't argue against that. 'Yes,' I said. 'Yes.' Sanjay Kumar didn't have a chance. He probably didn't have a chance even if he stayed in that rotting, choking village of his. But whether he stayed or left, he was going to keep watching movies, making lists, continue writing letters. Stupid bastard. But there were crores and crores like him, up and down and across the country. They were there, and they were our audience. I was going to make my film for them.

* * *

Of course I consulted Guru-ji before I put any cash into play. I wanted to see Jamila on the screen, and I was sure she would succeed as a star, but I wanted direction. I wasn't about to rush into a game I knew nothing about without some knowledge about what was to happen. But Guru-ji could see nothing, he couldn't see into the future of my movie with any specificity. 'I have a good feeling about the project, beta,' he said. 'But that's all. It happens sometimes, it's like trying to see through a warped lens. Some things get blanked out, some things come into sharp focus. I can't see anything bad.'

'But you can't see anything good,' I said.