Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

She turned her head against the pull of my fist, and her sweat slipped against my knuckles, and she said, 'Yes, yes, give, give,' and she laughed. She laughed . 'It's good, saab. Give. Yes, give.'

The delight in that hoarse laugh chilled my golis like a shivery splash of iced water. At once, immediately, I was unable to give. I was incapable. I slipped out of her, and I went in a stumbling rush into the next room. I sat on the sofa, and Zoya followed and curled in next to me. 'What happened?' she said. 'What's wrong?'

I sent her away. I had nothing to say to her, and in no way could have explained to her what was wrong, what I needed from her. The trap I was in was immaculate. I didn't trust her joy, and it seemed I couldn't even hurt her. I was so small. I sat in the dark. I kept thinking of Zoya's co-star, Neeraj Sen. That bastard was six foot two, with grey eyes and biceps like hand grenades. Yes, he must have a lauda that matched up to the rest of him. I shut my eyes and saw Zoya and Neeraj standing in a doorway, symmetrical and matched and equal to each other. She had an arm around his neck, and a leg raised up to his right shoulder, and she was taking his enormous machine, and she was transported. Her ecstasy was real, I knew it. I could tell. They were coloured red by a rising dawn, and they were happy.

I jumped up, rattled at the side of my head with an open palm. Wake up, bastard. Come back to your senses. Zoya would never do that. Zoya knows what she owes you. Zoya understands that you have made her. Zoya comprehends your power, your reach. Zoya would never offend you. Zoya is a good girl. Realize this.

I apprehended this, I had it locked up in my fists. I knew exactly how much I frightened men, how I overpowered women. Nobody would dare offend me. If there was a fool somewhere in the world who insulted me by mistake, I could have him erased the next day, he would vanish as if he had never existed. I could have Neeraj Sen taken up and vanished. He would cease, he would desist, he would go. He would not exist any more.

No, no, I needed him. I had already spent sixteen crores on this film, and the budget was inflating itself, surging up to reel in all those helicopter chases, those location changes in the songs. I had invested in Neeraj Sen? Why was he so big, the bastard Bengali? Six foot two and bulging? Who had ever heard of a six-two Bengali? Ah, yes, his grandmother had been a film actress, a Shakira Bano, one of those dancer-prostitutes who had become actresses in those black-and-white days. She had been a minor success, and under the screen name of Naina Devi she had played Madhubala's sister in a couple of films, and had done a famous bar dance with Dev Anand. She had married a Bengali cinematographer and had retired from the filmi game. But her sons had gone into distribution, and now this grandson Neeraj Sen was a hero, three films old and rising. Moving up and high and higher, with his six foot two height inherited from his grandmother, that's where he got those Pathan muscles. Bastards, I should kill them both, Neeraj and Zoya. There was a Glock in my bedside table, with a round in the chamber, and two extra clips. I could walk in, sweep it up and blow her head off. I could put two bullets in every limb, one in her belly, one in her chut, one in that unreachable heart.

I sent her home instead. I made some excuse about a sudden phone call from Thailand, some urgent work that required my presence. She knew something was wrong, but she was also intelligent enough not to press me. She kissed me (she had to bend low to do that), and then she went back to Bombay and work. I went back to Thailand, and took the yacht out to Ko Samui. And then I tested myself on several girls. I followed Guru-ji's advice to take only virgins, and paid extravagantly for them. Jojo sent me a girl from Andhra, and another one from Kerala, and a Bengali one. This last one was a Muslim, with hair down to her knees and slanty brown eyes. She wasn't as tall as Zoya, in fact she stood eye to eye with me. When I laid her down she covered her face with her hands, and I was instantly hard. When I released with one final thrust, she screamed. And in that instant I had the title for my film: International Dhamaka . I lay on top of her, laughing, and called Dheeraj Kapur and Manu immediately afterward. They agreed that it was a dhansu title that would attract the masses and the classes. 'We are going full speed now, bhai,' Manu said. 'Like your title says, we will explode internationally.' And he did not know how correct he was. With these girls, I was full speed. With all of them I was capable, confidently competent and more. They were too young and inexperienced to fake their reactions. Their pleasures were as real as their pain. I had no doubt, I was so very sure.

But I was also sure that my own pleasures were halved. The sensations that came buzzing up my spine were as high-voltage as always, and the hum in my head that came from seeing a beautiful Bengali novice clumsily tonguing my lauda was still heated, still high. But somewhere in this circuit between my high and my low, between my head and my crotch, there was a missing connection, and this fissure broke the current and damped it. I felt the excitement, but from a great distance. Of course I understood why this was so. I was Ganesh Gaitonde, and I had lived long enough and seen enough of the world to understand it a little, and understand myself even more. I knew why I could be confident and strong with these girls: they were trivial, I cared nothing for them, or for what they felt. When I took the Bengali at night, when I bent her like a bow over the railing of the boat, the water plunged against the prow and the crouching winds rushed the clouds over our heads, and I raced into her but my heart was quite still. It did not move.

Zoya shook me, she shuddered me directly into ecstasy. When I was with her, there was a constant agitation that pierced me through, a vibration, a friction, a warmth that was both joy and pain. When I was away from her, this stirring subsided, but never quite vanished. Zoya had disturbed me, and I hated her for it. And I loved her. I admitted it, I had to admit it to myself: I was in love with her. It was shameful, that I had fallen into the very trap that I warned the boys against, but I could not deny it. There was this word 'love', and now I understood what it meant. Suddenly I didn't want to fast-forward all those love songs in the movies. No, I wanted to soar for four and a half minutes with Ke kitni muhabbat hai tumse, to paas aake to dekho . In my cabin I sang along with:

Abhi na jao chhhod kar, ke dil abhi bhara nahin

Abhi abhi to aai ho, bahar ban kar chayi ho.

Hawa zara mahak to le, nazar zara bahak to le

Ye shaam dhal to le zara, ye dil sambhal to le zara…

Main thodi der jee to loon, nashe ke ghoont pee to loon

Abhi to kucch kaha nahin, abhi to kucch suna nahin

Abhi na jao…

The boys noticed my new affection for swooningly sentimental music and made little jokes about it. I laughed back at them, with them, but I told them nothing. I could tell nobody, the very thought of revealing my love made me flush and tingle like I had a fever, like I was a little boy caught by a sudden glance of light from an opening door. I shut away my love in a bunker, I hid it and held it safe. I didn't tell the boys, I didn't tell Guru-ji, I didn't tell Jojo. I didn't even tell Zoya. I just gave her diamonds, and a new car, and sent her regular shipments of cash.

I am sure she understood. We spoke every day, even as the pre-release madness of dubbing and photo-shoots and interviews took her from one end of Bombay to the other. I followed her on her special pink late-model Nokia mobile phone which I had given to her, which of course she used only to talk to me. On that phone, she called me 'Bill', and told me stories of her day, and her meetings with magazine editors and producers, and her excitement for the future. I listened, and gave her advice, and dreamed with her. In those days, just before the release, everything seemed possible. Even a bigger lauda.