Sacred Games

by Vikram Chandra

  ‘You want to talk to Suleiman Isa, sir?’

  ‘He is a cranky man. He has become almost crazy now, after all those years abroad. Better to talk to him, clear up whatever confusion he has. Bas, finish it, you know. No need to make him more suspicious than he already is. So, okay, I will talk to him. On a new phone, which can be delivered to him personally in Karachi a few minutes before he calls. My man will watch him dial on that phone only, and will confirm to me that security has been maintained. The question remains of where to receive the call.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sir, I was thinking. Are you still going to Pune on Thursday?’ Parulkar had a meeting with senior Pune policemen planned for that morning.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Then, sir, why not after your lunch, you come to our house there? Don’t tell anyone till the last minute, just say then that you want to go and visit Ma. I will be there, I will reach there on my own that morning. At two forty-five, I will call Iffat-bibi from my mobile and tell her to have Suleiman Isa call on Ma’s land line at three. They can ask for me, I’ll give you the phone. No problem, no fuss, and both ends safe. You can talk.’

  Parulkar put down his teacup and wiped his hands on a napkin. He smoothed back the short hair above his ears, in a gesture that he must have acquired as a young man. It reminded Sartaj of some fifties film hero, but he couldn’t think of which one. Parulkar nodded. ‘There is just one phone there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Only your Ma uses it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have even stopped using it since I got my mobile, sir, it is cheaper to make calls on the mobile than on the land line. But Ma, sir, she doesn’t like mobiles. She says they’re too small and have too many buttons.’ Sartaj was suddenly aware that he was saying ‘sir’ too much. Calm down, he told himself. Look at the man. But don’t stare at him. Drink your chai. Don’t shake the cup.

  ‘All right,’ Parulkar said. He always made decisions that suddenly. He weighed the alternatives, ran down the moves as far as he could and then he jumped. He had the courage and faith of a good gambler, and the confidence that he would win. ‘All right. But tell Iffat-bibi that the call comes in at three precisely. If they are two minutes late, I leave. And we will keep the conversation short. Ten minutes maximum.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Suleiman Isa is not to use my name during the call, or his.’

  ‘I will inform them, sir.’

  ‘Right. Shabash, Sartaj. Let us get this over with. And don’t tell your mother I am coming. We will surprise her as well.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Sartaj said. He stood up, saluted. He could feel his shirt wet against his lower back. The stain would be huge, despite the humming air-conditioner. He moved the chair aside, awkwardly, and backed away. He was almost at the door when Parulkar called.

  ‘Sartaj?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘You look very tired. What is the matter?’

  ‘That alert from Delhi, sir. They have us all running around.’

  ‘All nonsense. Their intelligence is too vague, there is nothing specific. It is all very ridiculous. There is no bomb-vomb. You take some rest.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Outside, Sartaj nodded at Parulkar’s guards and walked towards the staircase. He wanted very much to sit down on one of the benches and rest his wobbly legs, but he made it downstairs and kept walking, out of the station, past the crowds and the guards, through the high gate with its curving sign overhead, and stumbling along the street, through the preoccupied pedestrians and the swooping cars and the stray dogs with their scabied flesh. He stood at a corner, blinking. He did not know where he was. He turned to peer up at shop windows and street signs, and he realized he had somehow crossed a busy road. It was as wide as a black river, and the hungry eddies of vehicles swept by unceasingly. He did not know how he had come across, at the risk of his life, but here he was. His mouth was painfully dry, but he did not want a drink. He just wanted to get back to work. Far down to the left, there was a traffic light with a crossing. The bright circles flashed orange and green, green and orange. Sartaj made his way back to the station.

  On Thursday, Sartaj drove out early. He told himself that he wanted to get to Ma’s and prepare, that he wanted to travel in the cool of the early morning. But he had been unable to sleep, and finally it was easier to get up and start the car and drive than toss about in the musty sheets. It was good to be up in the mountains, to twist and loop along the old road. If he went fast and recklessly, the danger pushed everything out of his head, and he roared through Matheran and Khandala with only a thin skirl of memories trailing behind him, Megha and college picnics and walking up a domed hill. And then he was in Pune, and there was nothing to do but go home to Ma.

  She was squatting in the front room, surrounded by open trunks. ‘Look at these old sweaters,’ she said to Sartaj. ‘I forgot I even had them.’

  Sartaj bent low to her. ‘Peri pauna, Ma.’ He lowered the battered lid of a black trunk and sat on it, his calves against the almost faded stencilling of Papa-ji’s full name. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Beta, there are too many things here. If you also don’t want them, what is the use of keeping them here?’

  Ever since Papa-ji had died, she had gone on these cleaning binges every six months. She had given personal and household effects to cousins, aunts, uncles, servants, neighbours and beggars. She had shocked Sartaj sometimes with her ruthlessness, her detachment from old chairs and walking sticks and blue blazers. The only things that had seemed safe were old photographs and letters, but maybe even those would disappear in this round of vetting. Ma had an old photo close to her, on the floor. Sartaj knew it well, that blackened silver frame, as long as he could remember Ma had kept it in her cupboard, nestled close to her dupattas, where she would see it every morning. He picked it up, and there she was, held for ever in blooming youth, Ma’s lost sister. She was lovely, she flung a flow of jet-black hair over her shoulders as she laughed, turning back to the camera, and her body was a taut curve leaning into the far horizon. Sartaj knew every detail of the picture, he knew her name was Navneet, and that was about all he knew. Ma hadn’t liked to speak about her. Now, perhaps, beautiful Navneet would also vanish. Sartaj didn’t like it, this slow erosion of the home that he remembered, that he carried within himself. It was terrifying sometimes to come back to Pune and find another few pieces of it gone. One day, he thought, all that will be left will be these white walls. And then, not even that.

  But he couldn’t stop Ma. How could you argue with generosity? And in old age she had become stubborn and independent. She did what she wanted. ‘Yes, Ma. That’s true. But do you really want to give that cardigan? You really liked that one.’

  She held up a green cardigan by its shoulders, and then ran a finger along its red border of flowers. ‘Where will I need this? All these Maharashtrians come out in heavy coats in December, and it doesn’t even feel like winter to me.’

  She prided herself on her northern love of low temperatures, and her Punjabi hardiness. ‘If we go up to Amritsar,’ Sartaj said, ‘you will want it.’

  ‘When? For months you’ve been telling me that, beta.’

  ‘Soon, soon, Ma. Promise.’

  She didn’t seem at all convinced, but she did put the green cardigan on the right, in the small pile of items that were to be retained. Sartaj didn’t want to watch any more, this patient excavation and disposal of their life together. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said.

  She nodded, working at the stubborn lock on another trunk.

  ‘All this will be scattered about all day?’ he said.

  ‘I have to do the work. Why?’

  To warn her of Parulkar’s visit was impossible, so Sartaj shrugged. ‘Do you want anything from the market?’

  She didn’t. She seemed entirely more self-sufficient than he remembered from his childhood, when Papa-ji and servants and sometimes neighbours had been required to fetch and carry, to run err
ands and escort her from here to there. Sartaj couldn’t decide whether she had actually changed, or whether she had whittled down her needs and desires so much that the only person she really required was herself. He had no doubt of her love for him, and of her faith in Vaheguru, but even these attachments now sat lightly on her. She wanted only to go to Amritsar, and maybe she was readying herself for another journey. Sartaj shivered, and walked faster.

  The lane to the market was busy with white-haired women and men carrying jholas full of vegetables and fruit. Sartaj greeted some of them, the ones he knew from the gurudwara or from walks with Ma. In this locality of many retirees, the morning shoppers had time to stop and chat, and Sartaj was glad to listen to their reports about their sons and daughters, their thoughts on crime and their complaints about politicians. But finally there was no way to avoid going home, to what was to happen, and he trudged back. He was laden with packages himself now. It was hot, even under the rain trees and the gulmohars, and his feet sweltered and ached inside his shoes.

  ‘What have you brought?’ Ma said. Next to her, the pile of things to keep was just about the same size as when Sartaj had left, and the other stacks had grown.

  ‘Just some few bananas, Ma.’ Sartaj went into the kitchen, stepping over red bedcovers. He took the little Chini bananas out of the paper packet and put them on the counter.

  ‘Is that beer?’ Ma said. She was standing in the doorway. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like beer.’

  ‘Now I do. Can we eat? I’m hungry.’

  So Sartaj opened a bottle of Michelob and sipped at it and picked at his food. Afterwards, he lay on the bed in his room and shut his eyes hard against the glaring afternoon light that seeped past the curtains. At two, he got up and went back to the kitchen. Standing next to the washbasin, he opened another bottle of beer and forced down the thick bitterness of it. Then he padded past Ma, who was still at work among her trunks, and groped in the bathroom shelf till he found his tube of Vajradanti. He brushed his teeth twice, then sat on the bed to wait. He watched the clock.

  He heard the knock on the door at two-thirty. He let Ma get up and shuffle over and open it, and then he listened to Parulkar greeting her effusively. ‘Bhabhi,’ he said, ‘you look completely fit. After retirement I too will come to Pune. The air here is so much better.’

  ‘Arre, Sartaj didn’t tell me you were coming. Sartaj? Sartaj?’

  But Sartaj didn’t want to get up off the bed, not yet.

  She called again, ‘Arre, Sartaj, Parulkar-ji has come. Beta, where are you? I don’t know what he’s doing.’

  Sartaj knew what he was doing, yes, he did. So he forced himself up and went out and pretended surprise at Parulkar’s visit and welcomed him in and cleared the sofa for him and offered him beer and little Chini bananas. Parulkar drank with his usual gusto, and asked for Ma’s special spicy pakoras to go with the beer. He stood in the doorway and talked to Ma as she brought out her pans. ‘So then Sardar Saab said, “I need to go home, I have a new wife I haven’t seen for three days.” And only then I realized he hadn’t slept for four days.’

  Parulkar’s story was about Papa-ji, who had been famous in the department for being able to go for long days and nights without sleep, and also for his prodigious naps. Despite Ma’s ambiguous feelings about Parulkar, she was charmed by this talk of her dear departed, of his talents and his dedication to his work. She cut vegetables with new enthusiasm, and laughed, and told Parulkar that she remembered that week, and the kidnapping case they had been working on.

  ‘That was when the baby boy was stolen by his uncle,’ she said. And then they talked on about the long-ago past.

  Parulkar glanced at his watch, and Sartaj nodded. It was two forty-five. He walked into the bedroom, picked up his mobile and called Iffat-bibi. Of course she already knew the number, but the play had to be acted out. ‘Tell me,’ Iffat-bibi said, and Sartaj recited his lines.

  In the kitchen Parulkar was now telling stories about Sartaj, flattering ones about his successes in sports, and Ma was smiling. These were two of Parulkar’s great talents, this immense memory and this easy charm. It was impossible not to respond to his concern for your well-being, his intimate knowledge of your history and your hopes. So now they stood, all three of them, in a little family group, near the kitchen door. Parulkar asked Ma about her health, and the upkeep of the house, and Papa-ji’s pension payments. ‘Any problem you have, Bhabhi-ji, you call me immediately. Sartaj of course has my direct mobile number always.’

  Ma was distinctly chatty. She asked about Parulkar’s daughters, and their children. Parulkar proudly told her of their various achievements and joys. Even the divorced one (and she was well rid of that spendthrift, drunkard husband) was doing well now, she had started her own clothing business. At first it had been just modern salwar-kameezes and fancy ghagras for the women in the colony, but now she was getting customers from as far away as Shivaji Park. ‘All this,’ Parulkar said, ‘she did with only little support from me. She did it all alone. She used to be such a home-caring type, you know, always with the children, didn’t even know how to write a cheque. Now she is handling thousands of rupees, and she has four tailor-masters sitting for the whole day in our house. And is talking about buying a shop near by.’

  ‘The world has changed,’ Ma said. ‘All these young girls have become very brave.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Bhabhi-ji, what a change in our very lifetimes.’

  Ma pointed at sliced onions and cauliflowers. ‘These won’t take too long.’

  ‘No matter how long, Bhabhi-ji,’ Parulkar said. ‘I must have them. I am trying to avoid oil and fried foods, but for your excellent pakoras I must make an exception. But only today, and only since I am here in Pune.’

  Ma took in the gallantry with a pleased little nod. ‘Once in a while fried food is all right. But this Sartaj, he eats so badly all the time. All that greasy restaurant food, this is why he looks so tired.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Bhabhi-ji,’ Parulkar said. ‘I tell him all the time, this is no way to live. Whatever has happened, a young fellow cannot be alone. A man needs a family.’

  They both assayed Sartaj expectantly, like benign doctors looking for signs of improvement in a particularly intractable patient. Sartaj knew he should say something, but he felt very distanced, separated from the both of them by some fissure in the air, by a fracture that had flung him far away. They had the look somehow of an old photograph, as if they were made already unreal by the orange glow of nostalgia. ‘Yes,’ Sartaj said.

  ‘Yes what?’ Parulkar said.

  The phone churred out its old-fashioned ring.

  ‘Phone,’ Sartaj blurted, full of relief and terror. He got up, picked his way across the trunks. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Give it to Saab.’ The man’s voice was confident, aggressive.

  ‘Sir,’ Sartaj said, ‘the phone is for you.’

  ‘Oh,’ Parulkar said, ‘okay.’ He was in no hurry. He took a long swig of his beer, wiped his hands on a handkerchief.

  ‘Sir, you could take it in there, sir. In the bedroom.’

  Parulkar nodded, and went. Ma didn’t like this, Parulkar going into her room, but she couldn’t stop him now. The bedroom door snapped shut, and she shook her head at Sartaj. He waited for the click on the handset, and Parulkar’s ‘Hello’, and put the phone down. ‘It’s an important call, Ma,’ Sartaj said. ‘Very important. From the central government.’

  She still didn’t like it, but she was still enough of a policeman’s wife to know that calls from the central government couldn’t be avoided, and sometimes had to be taken in private. She cleared the table and wiped it clean. Sartaj drank another beer and watched the clock. Fifteen minutes passed, and then twenty. Parulkar was going over his limit, but maybe they were arguing about money. Maybe they were fighting about the deaths of Suleiman Isa’s shooters and controllers. Maybe they were threatening each other.

  �
�What is that man doing in there?’ Ma said. ‘I’m tired. His pakoras are ready, they will get cold.’

  She had missed her afternoon rest, and had been distracted from her work. ‘Ma, it’s not his fault the call came.’

  She shrugged, and sat down decisively on the floor, back at the trunks. ‘He should think himself, coming to people’s houses in the afternoon. But he was always like that.’

  Sartaj tried to hush her down from her old woman’s loudness. ‘He will hear you, Ma. You don’t worry, he’ll be finished soon.’

  But it was a full ten minutes before Parulkar emerged. He was triumphant. He winked at Sartaj and picked up his glass from the table and took a swig of beer. He sat down, in what used to be Papa-ji’s chair, and ate pakoras with deliberate, unhurried enjoyment. He was calm and confident and clearly victorious. He knew he had vanquished Suleiman Isa and all his henchmen. He talked to Ma about old times, when they had all been young, when Papa-ji had been renowned for the mirror gleam of his shoes. Finally Parulkar said, ‘Achcha, Bhabhi-ji. Now I must go. But I will come back for your pakoras soon. No, no, please don’t get up.’

  Ma didn’t get up, but she mustered up enough politeness to say, ‘Yes, you must,’ and wish Parulkar’s children well. Sartaj walked out on to the veranda with Parulkar, who was polishing a pair of shiny silver-and-black dark glasses.

  ‘Did it go all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes. The man just needed some sorting out. He is quite reasonable, if you know how to handle him.’ Parulkar put on his glasses with a flourish. ‘Anyway, it is settled now. Finished. Good work, Sartaj. Thank you.’

  ‘Sir, no need…’

  Parulkar patted his arm. ‘Your mother looks healthy. You have good genes. You will live long, Sartaj, if you take care of yourself. Okay, chalo, I will see you back in Bombay. Have a good rest. Relax. Go and see a film or something.’