Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

'Saab, really, I wasn't trying to fool you.'

'If you think I am a fool, then maybe I am the kind of fool who will have to look into certain businesses in this area, investigate certain people. Let me see, what were their names, your cousins? Salim Ahmad, Shakil Ahmad, Naseer Ali, Amir…'

'Saab, I understand. It will not happen again.'

'Good. Then maybe we can have a long relationship.'

'Saab, this is exactly what I want. A lasting association.'

Sartaj squeezed and shook, jogged his hips back, tucked and zipped. 'You can play the politician elsewhere. Not with us.'

'Of course, saab.'

Sartaj reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, and turned, and Wasim was holding up his copy of Filmfare .

'Please take, saab.'

'What?'

'There is good information inside this magazine, saab.'

Wasim's smile was very sly and small. Sartaj took the Filmfare and thumbed it open, and the pages fell apart naturally to a black-and-white picture of Dev Anand, partly hidden by a thin, paper-clipped stack of thousand-rupee notes, neatly staggered from right to left.

'It's just a small nazrana, saab. With hope for our future friendship.'

'We'll see about that,' Sartaj said. He rolled up the magazine and tucked it under his arm. 'I've told Birendra Prasad to bring his sons to the station tomorrow. In case he doesn't, keep track of the boys tomorrow, so we can get them if we need to.'

'No problem, saab. And saab, if you could also mention my name to Majid Khan Saab, and give him my salaam…'

'I will,' Sartaj said. 'But for four thousand rupees, don't expect to become the honoured guest of the station. This is only chillar.'

'No, no, saab. As I said, this is only a nazrana.'

They left Wasim there, and Sartaj was satisfied now that the man truly understood the nature of their mutual dependence. In the Gypsy, he unrolled the Filmfare and peeled off one note and handed it to Katekar, who tucked it into his breast pocket. Sartaj would also give some to Majid. He was under no obligation to pass any money upward, small amounts like this – under a lakh – were the field officer's prerequisite, and the senior inspectors and DCPs only shared if there was a respectable cake to cut. Still, he would give Majid the greetings from Wasim Zafar Ali Ahmad and offer a thousand, which Majid would laugh off. They had known each other for a long time, and a thousand – or even four thousand – was really only pocket change.

'Saab,' Katekar said. 'About this evening?'

'I hadn't forgotten.' Katekar had asked for an evening off, to take his family for an outing. 'Drive to Juhu now, I'll drop you and go.'

'Sir, there's no need…'

'It's all right. Drive.'

Sartaj felt a warm uprush of affection for stolid, dependable Katekar. Megha used to say that Katekar and he were like an old married couple, and maybe they were, but Katekar was still capable of springing surprises. Sartaj said, 'I thought you didn't like these Bangladeshis.'

'I like Bangladeshis in Bangladesh.'

'But that woman? Moina Khatun?'

'She lost a son. It is very hard to lose a child. Even if he was a thief. What was that dialogue from Sholay ? Hangal's line? "The heaviest burden a man can carry on his shoulders is the arthi of his son."'

'Very true.' And true to filmi logic, this particular Bengali son had committed robbery to marry off his poor sisters. They went over a flyover, over a clattering train with its late-afternoon crowds already swelling from the doorways. The dead boy had wanted more than marriage for his sisters, he had wanted a television set and a gas range and a pressure cooker and a larger house. No doubt he had dreamed of a brand-new car, one exactly like the brilliant silver Toyota Camry that was overtaking them now. What he had dreamed was not impossible, there were men like Ganesh Gaitonde and Suleiman Isa, who had begun with petty thefts and had gone on to own fleets of Opel Vectras and Honda Accords. And there were boys and girls who had come from dusty villages and now looked down at you from the hoardings, beautiful and unreal. It could happen. It did happen, and that's why people kept trying. It did happen. That was the dream, the big dream of Bombay. 'What was that song?' Sartaj said. 'You know, the one that Shah Rukh sings, I can't remember the film. Bas khwab itna sa hai …' Katekar nodded, and Sartaj knew that Katekar understood why he was asking, they had spent so much time together, on these drives across the city, that they followed each other's leaps and conceits.

'Yes, yes,' Katekar said. He hummed the tune, marking time with a forefinger across the steering wheel. ' Bas itna sa khwab hai…shaan se rahoon sada… Mmmmm, mmmmm, then?'

'Yes, yes. Bas itna sa khwab hai…Haseenayein bhi dil hon khotin, dil ka ye kamal khile…'

And they sang together: ' Sone ka mahal mile, barasne lagein heere moti…Bas itna sa khwaab hai .'

Sartaj stretched, and said, 'This Shamsul Shah, yes, he had a big khwab.'

Katekar snorted and said, 'Correct, saab, but the big khwab took his gaand finally.'

They both burst out laughing. In the auto-rickshaw to Sartaj's right, two women turned their startled faces away and leaned back under the cover of the canopy. This made Sartaj laugh even louder. He knew it was frightening to other people, this furious, rasping mirth coming from policemen in a Gypsy, but that made it all even funnier. Megha used to say, 'You tell these horrible police stories and then you cackle like some bhoot, it's very scary.' He had tried, for her sake, to stop, but had never been completely able to. It felt good now, anyway, to be rolling across the city with Katekar, laughing wildly, and there was no need to restrain himself, and so he laughed some more.

They were quiet when they pulled up into the curve of Juhu Chowpatty, through the compacted clog of rush-hour traffic. Sartaj walked around the front of the Gypsy, feeling a faint brush of air from the ocean. The chaat stands were neon-lit already, and the customers were streaming in from the road. 'Tell the boys I said Salaam,' Sartaj said.

Katekar grinned. 'Yes, saab.' He put his hand on his chest for a moment, and then walked towards the beach.

Sartaj watched him go, the confident rolling walk, the heavy-shouldered sway, the clipped hair. An experienced eye would pick him out for a policeman in a moment, but he had a talent for shadowing, and they had made some good arrests together. As he rode through Ville Parle, Sartaj hummed Man ja ay khuda, itni si hai dua , but he couldn't remember the end of the song. He knew the tune would spin in his head all day, and the last antra would come to him very late, somewhere between night and sleep. Man ja ay khuda , he sang.

* * *

Katekar found the boys and Shalini waiting, as appointed, near the stall called Great International Chaat House. He rubbed Mohit's head, poked him gently in the stomach. Mohit gurgled out a titter that made Rohit and Shalini smile.

'They're late again?' Katekar said.

Shalini twisted her mouth to the side. Katekar knew that look: what could not be changed had to be endured. And Bharti and her husband were always late.

'Let's go and sit,' Rohit said. 'They know where we sit.'

Katekar looked up and down the row of stalls, and across the road. There were two buses staggered behind each other, and it was hard to see. 'Rohit, go and see, maybe they're trying to cross.'

Rohit didn't like it, but he went, flapping his chappals angrily on the concrete. He had been stretched thin by his recent growth, but Katekar was certain that he would fill out once he hit his twenties, once he was married and settled. All the men in the family had attained an impressive thickness, shoulders and arms capable of intimidation, a respectable stomach. Rohit turned back, shaking his head.