Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

'Yes! You are the only man in the world who would notice. My dear Papa didn't figure out for three days why I was looking different.'

'Very nice,' Sartaj said. She looked quite plumply pretty, and Sartaj wondered if she had boyfriends in Belgium, or even in Bandra. But he kept the question to himself, knowing that Majid was very liberal, but that his tolerance of light-hearted romance didn't extend to his daughter. He might spend hard-won cash on a computer for his children, for his son, but that fierce cavalry moustache wasn't just an affectation. Boys under the spell of Farah's new look would have to be madly brave to climb up her castle wall eight floors tall. She was beaming now, and Sartaj was sure that there were lads whose fear had been banished by that glow. He himself had done some wall-climbing in long-ago days, and had braved fierce fathers for a lovely face.

After dinner, Rehana brought Sartaj a cup of tea and sat next to him on the sofa. She had the same broad cheekbones as her children, and a comfortable heaviness. In the gold-framed photograph on the wall she was a slim, hennaed bride, but even then, even with the formally lowered head, she had had the same bright eyes. 'So, Sartaj. Got a girlfriend?'

'Yes,' Sartaj said. 'Yes.'

'Who? Tell me.'

'A girl.'

'So what would a girlfriend be, a pineapple? Sartaj, for a policeman, you're a very-very bad liar.'

'It's a boring topic, Bhabhi.'

'My son doesn't think so.' Her son had walked down to the corner shop with her husband and daughter for ice-cream. 'Sartaj, you're not that old yet. How are you going to get through life like this? You need a family.'

'You sound just like my mother.'

'Because we're both right. We both want you to be happy.'

'I am.'

'What?'

'Happy.'

'Sartaj, anybody looking at you knows exactly how happy you are.'

And looking at her in the haven of her contentment, Sartaj thought he could have said the same thing about her. He felt acutely now the sodden, sweaty weariness of his own body, the whisky misery of it. He was annoyed now, at having the professional momentum of the day dragged down into this useless discussion about happiness with happy Rehana. He was saved from further investigation of the nature of happiness by a knock on the door. 'Ice-cream,' he said. 'Ice-cream.'

He ate a bowl of the ice-cream, and fled.

* * *

A violent buzzing woke Sartaj out of a dream about flying across oceans to meet foreign women. There was a very intricate plot involving watchful mothers and speeding jeeps, but it was gone as soon as his eyes opened. He propped himself up, baffled, and couldn't think where the noise came from. For a moment he thought it was the doorbell gone wrong, but then he remembered the mobile phone. He groped for it on the bedside table, dropped it off the side and had to pull it back up by the charging wire. Finally he got it open.

'Sartaj Saab?'

'Who is this?' Sartaj barked.

'Bunty, saab. Somebody told me you wanted to talk to me.'

'Bunty, yes, yes. Good that you called.' Sartaj swung his feet to the ground and tried to collect himself, to recollect a strategy for talking to Gaitonde's man. But he couldn't remember if he had thought one through, and finally he just said, 'I want to meet you.'

'The rumour is that you shot Bhai.'

'I didn't shoot Gaitonde. Forget rumours. What do you think, Bunty?'

'My information is that he was dead when you got in.'

'You have good information, Bunty. It all was very strange. Why should a man like that kill himself?'

'That's what you want to talk about?'

'That and other things. I'll tell you when I see you.'

'What do I know about why he killed himself?'

'Listen, Bunty. I just want to talk to you. If you help me, I may be able to help you. Gaitonde is dead, Suleiman Isa's boys will be looking for you. I've heard that some of your own people have split away already.'

'That is a game I have played for years.'

'True, but now? Alone? How far will you run?'

'You mean in my wheelchair, saab?' Bunty's voice was gravelly, with a little hiss of effort at the end of each breath. Maybe it was how he had to sit, some constriction of the lungs. But he was not sad, only amused. 'I can go faster in this thing than most men can run.'

Sartaj sat up, glad of the chance to be curious and friendly. 'Really? I've never seen a wheelchair like that.'

'This is foreign, saab. It goes up and down stairs also. It can do all sorts of things.'

'That is amazing. It must have been very expensive.'

'Bhai gave it to me. He liked things like that, up to date.'

'So he was a modern man?'

'Yes, very modern. But it is very hard to keep this chair running, you know. Nobody knows how to repair it here, and spare parts and everything you have to bring from vilayat. It breaks down too much.'

'Not built for Indian conditions.'

'Yes. Like one of those new cars. They look good, but finally only an Ambassador can get you to any village you want to go.'

'Meet me, Bunty. Maybe I can get you to your village safely.'

'I was born here in Mumbai, in GTB Nagar only, saab. And you are too eager to meet me. Maybe Suleiman Isa has asked you to send me home.'

'Bunty, you ask anyone. I have no connections to Suleiman Isa or any of his men.'

'You are close to Parulkar Saab.'

'That may be. But I don't do such work for him, Bunty. You know that. I am just a simple man.' Sartaj stood up, walked around the bottom of the bed. He was pushing too hard, at a man who was trying to outmanoeuvre death on his speedy wheelchair. 'Listen, you don't want to meet, no problem. Just think about it, okay?'

'Yes, saab. I have to be careful, especially now.'

'Yes.'

'Saab, but I can help you over the phone. What did you want to know?'

So Bunty was keeping his options open with Sartaj, in case he himself needed help later. He had problems of his own, after all, and he wanted to stay alive. Sartaj relaxed, shook his shoulders loose and stretched his neck. Now they had the possibility of a relationship. 'Tell me, you really know nothing about why Gaitonde took his own wicket?'

'No, saab. I don't know. Really I don't know.'

'You knew he was back in Bombay?'

'I knew. But I hadn't seen him for weeks. We spoke only on the phone. He was hiding out in that thing.'

'That house?'

'Yes. He wouldn't come out.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. He was always careful.'

'What did he sound like on the phone?'

'Sound like? Like Bhai.'

'Yes, but was he sad? Happy?'

'He was a bit khiskela. But he was always like that.'

'Khiskela how?'

'Like his brain was full of things. Sometimes he would talk to me for an hour about something that had nothing to do with business, just talk and talk.'

'Like what?'

'I don't know. One day it was about computers in the old times. He said that there were computers and super-weapons in the Mahabharata , he went on and on about Ashwathamma. I didn't listen. Even before, when he was on his boat, he liked to talk long on the phone. It was a big waste of money. But he was Bhai, so you just kept saying, haan, haan, and he went on.'

'Who was that woman with him?'

'Jojo. She sent him items.'

'Sent him?'

'Yes. First-class items for Bhai. He used to have them flown out to Thailand or wherever he was. Virgins. Jojo was the supplier.'

'Virgins all the way from here?'

'Yes, he liked Indian virgins.'

'How many?'

'I don't know. Once a month maybe.'

'And Jojo was his woman also?'

'She was a bhadwi. He must have taken hers also. That was one of his hobbies.'

'Why did he come back to Mumbai, Bunty?'

'I don't know.'

'You were his main boss in Mumbai, Bunty. Of course you know.'