Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

It was time for a trip to Singapore, I thought then. I wanted to see Zoya one last time, to break my connection with her. I had grown past the need for her, I had gone beyond love. I wanted to settle with her and to say goodbye. I had no more bitterness or anger left, and I wanted to finish honourably, with no confusions or resentments. I had not seen Arvind face-to-face for a while, and I didn't like to let too much time pass without sitting down with my main managers. Useless though this flesh was, there were things you learnt only from it. So I flew into Singapore, two days in advance of Zoya. I caught a night flight in. Arvind picked me up as usual, and we drove to the apartment, observing the usual security procedures on the route. We doubled back, looking for followers and watchers, and we changed cars midway. This tradecraft had become second nature to us by now, and we did it without having to think about it. There was a plump moon hanging low over us. We talked about business, and investments, and personnel problems. And we gossiped a little, about one of Suleiman Isa's lieutenants, Hamid. This Hamid lived in Karachi, and he had had an affair by e-mail and phone with the wife of his top Bombay controller while the poor maderchod was rotting in jail. Arvind had recently heard one of the tapes from the police taps on the wife's phones, and he imitated the randi panting and moaning as she told Hamid how she would lick his pole. 'Bhai,' he said, 'we live in amazing times. Her husband is sitting in jail. And she is e-mailing pictures of herself to Hamid, photos of herself in a bikini.'

'It's good for us, this management technique of theirs. Gives a new meaning to telling the boys, "We'll take care of the wife and kids if you have to go to jail for us."'

'Yes, bhai. After all, the husband had been in jail for five years at this point. And a woman has needs that have to be taken care of.' Arvind was reaching out of the car window to insert a card into a slot in the wall, so that we could get through the double security gates of the apartment building. 'You know, bhai, at the end of the call, Hamid says to her, "I have never said this to anyone in my life." Then he says, in English, "I love you." And she says, in English, "I love you."'

'I suppose he never said it to his three wives, the bastard.'

Arvind grinned. 'Maybe not in English.'

His own wife looked fat and happy, so I knew he had been telling her that he loved her in many languages. The children were asleep, but I stopped by their separate rooms to take a look at them, the boy and girl. I told Suhasini that they had grown since I had seen them last, two months ago. I wasn't just flattering. Even with them lying down, I could see the monster length of their legs. They were only seven and five. They would both be six feet tall before they stopped budding, these freakish flowers from Arvind's garden. I ate some rice and dal, and spoke to their proud parents about the speedy little brats.

'It's all the protein, bhai,' Suhasini said, wiping her heavy chin with the end of her pallu. 'In our time, in India, we didn't get enough. We were all malnourished. Now, if you have the knowledge, you can give your children what they need. This growth looks unusual only to us. Really, it's just normal.'

All her Singapore protein was making her grow into a perfectly round football, but I didn't tell her that. I praised her children, and then went to bed. Just as I was about to fall asleep, Zoya called from Bombay. 'I'm so sorry, bhai,' she said. 'I've been delayed.' She had finished her shooting on time that day, they had been on location, and on the way back to the city, on the highway, they were stopped by a seven-mile traffic jam. Three speeding trucks had wrapped themselves around each other. It took six hours to clear the tangled mess. She was very sorry, and very scared. She had never missed an appointment with me before.

But I truly was beyond passion and anger. I told her quietly to get a good night's rest and catch the flight the next day. And then I closed my eyes and was at rest.

I was bored the next morning. Arvind and I had our morning conference, I called Bunty. I took care of business, but I had scheduled the day for Zoya. I had expected solemn discussions, maybe some tears. Now, I had nothing to do. I watched some television. I played with the bachchas. Then it was time for lunch, and the big question under discussion was where we were going to order food from. Arvind wanted Indian food, but he was outvoted.

'There's a new Cantonese restaurant in the Singapore Shopping Centre, bhai,' Suhasini said, palpitating with greed. 'Their food is fantastic. But they don't deliver. Tell him to go.'

'It's not so close,' Arvind said. 'And there's three Chinese places down the street here.'

'I'll go,' I said.

'What?' Both of them said it, both with the same bafflement.

'I need to get out,' I said.

'But, bhai?' Arvind said.

He didn't need to say any more. I had never gone out in Singapore, not once. In Thailand, I rarely left the yacht. I had emerged to take the trip to Germany, but that had been understood to be a unique, emergency procedure. And here I was, offering to go and get Chinese food. 'I need the outing,' I said.

He knew me well enough not to argue. 'I'll send a couple of boys with you.'

'Arre, no, baba.' I pointed to my face. 'I'm protected completely by this. Nobody knows me any more.'

So I went. Once I was out on the main road, I let the car lunge ahead. I sped, I weaved and I felt free. It was good to be a simple man with an unknown face going out to get Chinese food. There was real pleasure for me in this servant's errand, in walking into the restaurant and ordering the food, in paying for it, in thanking the little Chinese receptionist. I tried to imagine what she saw: an Indian man in his thirties, clean in a sparkling white T-shirt and grey shorts and white Nikes, quite handsome but nevertheless ordinary. Did she see something of who I really was in my eyes? But I was wearing sunglasses with tinted grey lenses. I was safe.

I settled back into the car and switched on the air-conditioning, and it came on fast and strong, and the thought came to me that it was a very expensive car. The leather under my thighs was as soft as a young girl's cheeks. The car was a new-model Mercedes, fitted out with all the latest gadgets, including a GPS system. That bastard Arvind. Why did he need a GPS system in this chutiya little city? How did he afford all this? Was he keeping back too much money, were his percentages too large? Or was he lying about his various incomes? All the way back I was bothered by these questions. I listened to the International Dhamaka CD, and worried.

I was still thinking about money as I parked and went up in the lift. My company was doing well, but our expansion had slowed. Maybe I needed to introduce austerity measures, to impress upon the boys the need for financial restraint and resource management. I realized suddenly, then, that I was very hungry. The packages of food I held in both hands were wafting up spice and meat. The lift stopped at our floor, and I tapped at the door with my toe. Open, gaandu.

I stepped through. There were two men in the corridor, flanking the door of the lift, facing it.

I didn't know them. One was Chinese, one Indian. They both had short hair, clipped close at the sides in military style.

'Where you going?' the Chinese said.

What's it to you, maderchod? is what I wanted to say. It rose from my gut, but I was thinking. In that eternity which nestled inside that fraction of a moment, I was thinking. Thanks be to Guru-ji. I said instead, 'Food.' I held up the bags, in both hands. 'Delivery,' I said. 'Penthouse.'

'They don't need it,' the Indian said, in Hindi. 'They have gone out.'