Sacred Games (128 page)

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 errands 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.'

He turned smartly and trotted off to his car. The bodyguards got into their jeeps with a clanking of weapons and doors, and the procession went on its way in a festive cloud of dust, followed by two yelping dogs.

Ma was standing by the door. ‘The bananas and the beer,' she said. ‘You knew he was coming.'

‘Yes.' She hadn't listened to all those policemen's tales for all those years for nothing. She knew how to take apart motives and actions, consequences and causes.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is there any trouble? Did you do something?'

‘No.'

‘Go and rest.'

As he went by her, she laid a hand on his wrist, in an action as familiar and old as childhood. She was checking him for fever, for anything out of balance and in need of care. But today, this afternoon, there was no sick
ness in him, no particular bodily reason for his exhaustion and his reddened eyes. As he slumped by the open door to Ma's room, he saw something glint and glimmer on the table next to her bed. So Ma had decided to keep the photograph of her beloved Navneet. Ma's attachment to things was fading, but she still cared for people. He could still feel her hand on his wrist. How small her hands were, and her feet. She was altogether a small person, so tiny in her childhood that Navneet and the rest of the family had called her ‘Nikki'. It was hard to imagine her as a giggly girl, but little Nikki had somehow grown into Ma, who took care of him even as she slowly loosened herself from the world's grip. In his room, Sartaj put the fan on full and stripped down to his underwear. The sleep came fast, and when he woke up it was quite dark. He lay still, listening to the night. He could hear Ma, moving things about in the kitchen, and beyond her, the neighbours and a slight shifting of wind and cars and a small squall of children's voices. We are still here, he thought, we are still alive. We have survived another day. But the thought did not make him feel any better.

 

Sartaj called Iffat-bibi four times that night, and then every hour the next morning, while he drove back to Bombay. Each time she said the same thing, ‘When they are ready, they will tell me. And then I will tell you your sadhu's address. You will get your information, saab. Don't worry. Just have a little patience, a little more.'

But Sartaj, who had practised patience his entire career, found it hard to find any now. Back in Zone 13, from the patio of the station, he watched Parulkar come into work that morning, and the man seemed as jovial and energetic as always. So he was still unaware of the trap that already had him in its teeth. And he didn't know, yet, who had set him up. He would know soon.

Sartaj left the station and halfheartedly pursued leads on a burglary case until noon. He then decided he needed an early lunch, and made his way to Sindoor. He asked for some papad, and chicken tikkas, and gave the waiter a bottle of Royal Challenge whisky in a plastic bag. By the time Kamble joined him an hour later, Sartaj had managed to soften the light inside Sindoor into a gentle haze. Kamble sat, and watched as the waiter put another full glass of tawny liquid on the table.