Sacred Games (93 page)

 

Parulkar was waiting for Sartaj in his niece's apartment in Santa Cruz. The deliveries of his money to Homi Mehta, his consultant, had slowed for a while, but now the pace was picking up again. He had no doubt spent untold sums of money as he engineered his way back to political favour, and now he was recouping. Sartaj had made a delivery less than a month ago, and now he was marvelling once again at the green marble in the lobby of the niece's apartment building. The stone seemed to increase its lustre each time Sartaj came back. Perhaps that was one of the virtues of Italian marble. The steel in the lift was still unmarked, so that Sartaj could see his face and tend to his moustache. He decided he was looking better than he had in a long time, and then wondered how this could be so, given all the recent stress. And perhaps he was imagining it anyway.

But Parulkar noticed it too. ‘You are looking smart, Sartaj. Good, good.' He thumped Sartaj on the back and led him inside the apartment. The glass-topped dining table had dishes laid out on it, on lace-edged white place mats. ‘Have some poha and chai. The poha is especially very good.'

‘I've already eaten, sir.'

‘Try some anyway, beta. Once in a while it is good to enjoy the small things in life. I'll have a cup with you.'

The poha was indeed spectacular. Sartaj ate a small helping, then heaped his plate again. Parulkar drank chai and looked on benignly. They spoke about current cases and about Parulkar's family. The renovations on Parulkar's house were at last complete, and now his daughter Mamta
– whose divorce was proceeding through the family courts – and her children could live comfortably with Parulkar. Life was getting on. Parulkar seemed content, and all his old vigour had returned, redoubled. ‘We will begin some new community interaction projects next month,' he said, ‘after Diwali. New work for the new year.' And he listened to Sartaj's tales about the Gaitonde affair, and was confident that it would all amount to nothing. He shook his head and said, ‘This is all just unnecessary fear, based on very little real evidence. That woman is connecting things from here and there, making up a case for herself to pursue. People do that when their career is just sitting. Gurus and bombs! Nonsense.'

Sartaj wasn't completely reassured, but Parulkar's confidence was comforting. After all, Parulkar was the man with the unerring instincts, whose record of arrests and successful investigations was unequalled. ‘Yes, sir,' Sartaj said. ‘It is all just a story based on rumours, nothing more.' He pushed back his plate. ‘That was very good.'

‘Come on,' Parulkar said. ‘I have something for you.'

Sartaj was expecting the usual load of cash to be transported, but Parulkar led him to the bedroom and offered a grey box.

‘Open, open,' he said.

Sartaj lifted the lid – bearing an embossed logo he had never seen before – and found tissue paper, very soft paper that individually wrapped the most glossy, elegant shoes he had ever encountered. They were simple, but sleek, and every stitch around the sole spoke of care and quality. The colour was perfect, brown with a hint of red, not flashy but eloquent. These were ideal shoes.

‘They are Italian, Sartaj,' Parulkar said, ‘straight from Italy. You wear a nine wide, yes?'

Sartaj had to make an effort to break out of his trance. ‘Yes, sir.'

‘Come on, try them on. I had a friend bring them in from Milan, told him the size and everything. Let us see if they work.'

Sartaj sat on the bed, pulled at his laces. The moment he slipped the new shoe on his right foot, he knew it would work. ‘It's good, sir.' He put on the second one, and stood up. ‘Perfect fit, sir.' He walked from one end of the room to the other, and shook his head in wonder. It was not just the hold of the shoe, which was close without getting snug, but its weight and mechanism. Sartaj walked. This was an Italian shoe which lived up to its foreign billing.

‘Right,' Parulkar said. ‘So let's throw away those old ones. I was surprised that you wore them so long.'

‘Wear these on the street, sir?'

‘Of course, Sartaj. Good things are not for keeping in the cupboard. Life is uncertain, one must enjoy. Wear them.'

Sartaj looked down. Yes, it would be possible to wear these on duty. They were not conspicuous, and only a discerning eye would be able to recognize their true quality. ‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Mention not,' Parulkar said, waving an expansive hand. He nodded, very satisfied. ‘Now you look like Sartaj Singh again.'

 

Homi Mehta was counting the stacks of Parulkar's money at his usual unhurried, precise pace. Sartaj leant back in an office chair, his arms behind his head and his legs straight out, feeling quite relaxed. It was amazing that a pair of shoes should give him such an oasis of serenity, but then it was the small things in life that really mattered. Let global events do their worst, good craftsmanship was still possible and, yes, necessary. Sartaj wriggled his toes and let out a sigh, surprising Homi Mehta and himself.

‘Twenty. All complete and correct,' Homi Mehta said, and patted the cash. ‘You are happy today.'

Sartaj shrugged, but couldn't hold back a smile. ‘Just comfortable.'

‘Did you bring any money of your own?'

‘No. Not today, Uncle.'

‘Arre, how many times to tell you? Save when you are young.'

‘Yes, I know, I must think of the future. Maybe next time.'

‘Next time, next time, like this your life will pass. Let me tell you, one day you wake up and you are old. And where is your security? And how will you support your wife?'

‘I'm not married.'

‘Yes, yes, but you will be. You don't want to depend on your children, I tell you. Especially nowadays.' Homi Mehta stood up and began stacking the money into a black plastic bag. The snowy white of his linen shirt was exactly the tint of his neatly clipped hair. ‘No doubt your children will be good children, but it is a shameful thing to have to ask them.'

‘Uncle, you have me married and having children already. Anyway, I'm not so close to retirement yet. There is time left.'

‘Yes, yes, exactly what I am saying. Use the time fruitfully, Sartaj. Lay out a strategy. Establish your targets, and make a scheme. I can help you.'

Sartaj could see that Homi Mehta was completely baffled by his obtuseness, that he was a man who lived by long-term plans and intricate
outlines. ‘Okay, Uncle. You are completely correct. Next time I come in we will sit down and discuss everything. We will write down goals, and make…' Sartaj made motions, a series of steps.

‘Charts.'

‘Yes, charts. Don't worry. We will do everything. Everything will be taken care of. We will prepare.'

 

In the lift, hedged into a corner by a sabji-walla and his basket of tomatoes and onions, Sartaj watched the wrinkled neck of the liftman. The lift stopped at many floors, and the liftman clanged back his doors and let in servants and saabs, mothers and dhobis. Sartaj was thinking about how uncanny an animal this life was, that you had to seize it and let go of it at the same time, that you had to enjoy but also plan, live every minute and die every moment. And what of disasters? Suppose the cable broke, and the lift plummeted, carrying its load of men and women into the dark chasm below, would they all grieve within that drop for the days and years missed, or worry about the ones left behind? The light that came between the bars of the door flashed white and dark across Sartaj's eyes, and he felt light and insubstantial, and yet full of blood and muscle and movement.

The lift heaved and shifted and settled on the ground floor, and Sartaj shook off all questions and suppositions and imaginings and stepped out into the hard daylight. There was work to do. He had almost reached the building's gate when his phone rang.

‘Sartaj Saab, salaam.'

‘Salaam, Iffat-bibi. Everything is well?'

‘Yes. But you could brighten my day.'

‘Tell me.'

‘I hear you are down in the city, near us. Why don't you give us a chance to extend our hospitality?'

Sartaj stopped short. ‘How do you know where I am?'

‘Arre, saab, we are not following you. No, no. It is just that we also do business with the man that Parulkar Saab makes you take his money to. One of our boys saw you, he told me, that is all.'

Sartaj was on the road now. He turned in a quick circle, but there were only the ordinary pedestrians passing by, nobody who looked like a fielder. ‘Your boys are everywhere.'

‘We have many employees, that is true. Saab, you know we are in Fort, not so far away. Come and eat with us.'

‘Why?'

‘Why? I am your well-wisher, and I hope you are mine.'

‘Why do you suddenly want to meet me?'

Iffat-bibi let out a long breath. When she spoke again, she was no longer the kindly old woman. ‘I have a big proposal for you,' she said, and her voice had smoothened and tightened into stone. ‘A proposal that I would prefer to give to you face-to-face.'

‘I am not interested.'

‘At least listen to what I have to say.'

‘No.'

‘Why? We have dealt with each other before.'

‘On small things, and I am a small man. I have no capability for big proposals.'

‘You are content with remaining small?'

‘I am happy.'

Her laughter was straightforwardly mocking. ‘That is a coward's happiness. How long will you run Parulkar's little errands? That man makes crores, and you, how much? Your promotion is overdue, and does he help? He is not your well-wisher, Sartaj Saab.'

‘Don't say anything about him.' Sartaj's hand was trembling, and he had to make an effort to keep his voice down. ‘Don't say anything. Understand?'

‘You are very loyal to him.'

Sartaj waited. He could believe now that this old kutiya helped run a company, that she sent out murderers and extortionists.

‘But he is not loyal to you,' Iffat-bibi said. ‘He was not even loyal to your father…'

‘Bhenchod, shut up.' Sartaj hung up. He strode down the road, then realized he had gone past the Gypsy. He came back, heaved himself into the driver's seat and sat with his hands on the wheel, trying to calm himself. There was no need to get angry. That randi was just trying to manipulate him. Yes, and she had succeeded. Calm, calm.

Sartaj finally started the vehicle and pulled out into the traffic. Now he was able to think. The question was, why was Iffat-bibi saying these things about Parulkar to him, to him of all people? When, and why, had Parulkar become distasteful to her, and to her company? It was probably true that he was now close to the present government, but that was only survival. Iffat-bibi and her people would have to understand that. So why was Suleiman Isa now Parulkar's enemy?

Sartaj had no answers, and he did not want to ask Parulkar. He had always kept himself clear of Parulkar's big business, away from knowledge of Parulkar's intricate network of patronage and money and connections. He did not want to know because he wanted no part of it. He was afraid of the gravity of that vast constellation of ambition and wealth and power, he was afraid that he would be sucked, helpless, into it. Yes, maybe Iffat-bibi was right, maybe he was a coward. He had not courage enough for that spinning circle, he was frightened – as frightened as a child – of being shattered by its velocity.

By the time he passed through Mahim, one question still bit at him: had Papa-ji been afraid, too? Maybe Papa-ji's integrity, and what little of it Sartaj had himself, came really from fear. Maybe they were both not big enough to ask for too much. Small rewards for small hearts. But there was no way around this thorny blockage. Sartaj did not want to deal with Iffat-bibi. He did not want to know more about Parulkar, and that was that. He drove faster, and tried to leave it all behind.

 

Sartaj met Kamala Pandey in a coffee shop on S.V. Road. She was going shopping in Bandra that afternoon, she had said, and the coffee shop was a convenient place to meet. She was sitting at the back of the shop, with two full shopping bags and Umesh next to her. Sartaj wasn't expecting Umesh, but he was there, glorious and beautiful in black jeans and a white T-shirt. He was sitting close to Kamala, arm to shoulder, and Sartaj wasn't sure that they weren't secret boyfriend and girlfriend again, but he was certain there had been some haramkhori recently. Some pushing-and-pulling, as Kamble would have put it.

‘Hello,' he said.

Sartaj pulled out a chair and sat. He nodded, and said nothing. Kamala shifted about, and then said in a very small, girlish voice, ‘I told Umesh to come. I thought he may be able to help.'

Sartaj kept his voice soft, and very neutral. ‘If you want to keep this case private, then keep it really private.'

Umesh smiled, and leant forward across the table. ‘Inspector saab,' he said, ‘you are absolutely correct. But Kamala is alone in this, you see. And she needs some support. I am the only one she can talk to about this. A woman needs support, you see.'

He really was very charming, in a confidentially boyish sort of way. His hair fell over his forehead and he had a very sweet smile, a young one. Sartaj couldn't deny any of this. ‘Yes,' Sartaj said. ‘But…'

‘Will you have a coffee, inspector saab?' Umesh said. ‘Do. It's very good here.'

‘No,' Sartaj said. ‘I'm in a hurry.'

‘Try the cappuccino,' Umesh said. He raised a pointing finger, and called to the boy behind the counter. ‘Harish. One cappuccino here.'

Sartaj let it go. He had only a vague idea of what a cappuccino was, and he knew he didn't want one. But it wasn't worth the effort to argue with charming Umesh. ‘We are making progress on the case,' he said to Kamala. ‘There have been some breakthroughs. Let's see if something comes of them.'

‘What breakthroughs?' Kamala said. She was eager, excited.