Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

In the early morning hours, sometimes, I was able to dream of Mumbai. In that light half-sleep, I put myself into those lanes, and I was young and happy again. I relived my victories, my narrow escapes, my triumphs of tactics and strategy. And not only these grand moments – these historical landmarks the whole city remembered – I also recalled small details and passing conversations. A neer dosa shared with Paritosh Shah at a roadside udipi stall near Pune, Kanta Bai dealing cards on top of an upturned carton. A game of carrom with the boys on the roof of my house in Gopalmath, with monsoon winds swaying the wires on the rooftops of the basti. On these mornings, I awoke happy. I was confident that everything was all right, no reason for worry. And by evening I was trembling again.

If only I could talk to Guru-ji. I couldn't find him. The months passed, and Guru-ji was still gone. Of course I had my boys looking for him, but I knew that they were beginning to resent this intrusion into their time, which they preferred to spend making money. They were all polite, of course, and did as they were told, but I knew that their efforts were less than enthusiastic, and that their constant reports of 'Nothing found, bhai' glossed over the fact that they hadn't actually looked. Bunty was barely out of the hospital, still alive but crippled, deadened from the waist down. Of course we were providing the best medical care for him, the best technology. I spoke to him every day, and he was taking on work and responsibility, but he hadn't the energy to push the boys, to make them devote themselves to the search. It didn't help that I couldn't tell them exactly why we were searching for Guru-ji. I had only my insane imaginings, and I didn't want to sound crazy, and I didn't want to start a panic. Life had to go on, work had to continue, money had to be earned. Also, I couldn't announce my reasons without exposing my whole connection with Guru-ji, without giving away everything I had kept secret for so long. So I said only that we needed to find Guru-ji, and that was all. But there was no motion on this mission, no success, not even a lead.

So I went to Bombay.

I flew in from Frankfurt with a best-quality German passport in the name of Partha Shirur, and walked easily through immigration and customs. An hour later I was in a bungalow in Lokhandwalla. My cover was that I was an NRI businessman based in Munich, that I was returning to India after a very long time abroad, that I was investigating business opportunities. So here I was, suddenly sitting in a cane chair on the roof of the house, which was called 'Ashiana'. I was sweating through my shirt, but I was enjoying myself. I asked for a glass of coconut water, and sipped it, savouring that particular Bombay stink in the thick air, of petrol fumes and pollution and swamp water. Behind me, a stack of flat buildings made a wall for my back, and in front there was a dirt road edged with streetlights, and then a leafy darkness. I felt reinvigorated, and the aircraft exhaustion dropped away from me as I listened to the crickets sing. A pack of dogs skulked around the corner, yipping at each other. I was content.

There was a commotion at the staircase, and then I heard that low whirr and whine of a wheelchair. But it wasn't Guru-ji, it was Bunty, navigating his way over the little step in the roof. We had of course got him a wheelchair exactly like Guru-ji's, despite the cost. He deserved at least that.

'Bunty,' I said. 'Bastard, you're like a racing driver in that thing.'

'Bhai,' he said. 'It's a good machine.'

He looked lost inside his own skin, as if he had shrunk into himself. I had to bend to hug him. 'It's the best, my friend. Did you drive it up the stairs?'

'No, no, bhai,' he laughed. 'I'm not as good with it as our other friend. I had them carry me up.' He angled a thumb at the three young lads near the doorway on the other side of the roof. I could see their faces in the light from the stairs, and they were all new. I knew none of them.

'Tell them to go away,' I said.

He waved at them, and they retreated. 'They don't recognize you,' he said. 'If I passed you on the street, I wouldn't have known you.'

'Best surgeon, he gave good results,' I said.

'Yes. But we have to be careful, bhai. One meeting.'

'One meeting.' That was our plan. I was going to be in the city, but I was going to stay undercover. The government was using MCOCA to throw our boys in jail, the encounter specialists were killing them faster than ever. It was a very dangerous time. As far as my company knew, I was still in Thailand, or Luxembourg, or Brazil. I was going to communicate with Bunty through our secure communications equipment and e-mail. We were going to be near, but act as if we were far. But we had to meet once, at least once. I had told him that, I had ordered it even though it was a risk for me. I had told him I didn't care if he was being watched not only by the police and Suleiman Isa's people, but also by the CIA with all their satellites. He had taken bullets for me, and I wanted to see him face to face. We had been together for a long time. I pulled up my chair close to his, sat shoulder to shoulder with him. 'Here,' I said. 'For you, chutiya. All the way from Belgium. It's a genuine platinum Rolex, with diamonds on the dial and the strap. I got it through our friends there, but it's still twenty-two thousand dollars.'

'Bhai.' He was holding it with both hands cupped, as if it was a blessed idol I had brought back from a pilgrimage. 'Twenty-two thousand yu-ess. That is just too good. It is so masst. It is beyond masst, I don't know what to say.'

'Don't talk, bastard. Put it on.'

He put it on, and held his arm up and away so that he could admire the Rolex. He had a young girl's delight in his smile, that pleasure in unexpected jewellery. He was afraid of scratching it, though, of bumping it and losing a diamond. He held his arm carefully across his lap as we spoke, resting on his withered thighs. We talked then, of business and his family, of export and import and investments and stocks, and who had died and who was still alive. It was good and necessary conversation, but I realized even as we gossiped and joked and theorized that it was not the talk that mattered, but the sight of the paan-stained teeth on this loyal little gaandu, the ability to reach out and slap his shoulder. You can listen to the sounds that a phone makes, but it is not the true voice of a man. It was good to sit next to him, and talk until the birds began their morning clamour. It was like old times.

He left after eating breakfast with me. I walked down to the garden gate with him, and watched as he went jauntily up a folding ramp into the back of his van. He turned the wheelchair within its own axis, so that he was facing to the front, and held up a hand to wave at me. I raised a hand, marvelling again at the wheelchair and the spirit of Bunty, who had learned to manoeuvre in such tight quarters. The van pulled away in a swirl of dust – always this dust in this city, already this grimy, polluted sweat – and I went back into the house. I was tired, but I felt confident, because I was Ganesh Gaitonde and men sacrificed their limbs and their potency for me, they suffered pain and paralysis, and yet – even after the embarrassment of pissing into plastic bags – they offered to serve me again. They were happy to work for me, to be my boys. A watch from me was worth as much to them as a medal from the president. Yes, I would find Guru-ji. I was sure of it. He couldn't escape me. This city was mine, this country belonged to me. I had the guns and the money, and I would find him. I went inside, drew the curtains tight against the glare, turned up the air-conditioner and went to sleep.

* * *

Bunty's boys hadn't recognized me, and I had no trouble convincing the rest of the company that I was still in foreign waters. But Jojo, that sharp kutiya, was suspicious right from the start. I called her that first afternoon, and even before I could say 'Hello' she was at me.