Sacred Games (62 page)

‘No, no. He didn't like to talk about work with me. He said a policeman's life meant that you couldn't escape from work until midnight anyway. Then to come home finally and keep thinking and talking about work, that would drive you mad. So we talked about other things, and he
said that relaxed him. That's what he said anyway.' She sounded dryly amused. He could see the tilt of the chin, that downward glance. ‘The truth is that he was old-fashioned. He thought that I would be scared by all the murder and the dirty things they had to investigate. He thought women shouldn't be exposed to that kind of thing.'

‘And you went along with that?' She loved action movies, and in recent years had developed an inexplicable taste for all the really bad, blood-dripping, moonlight-and-screams horror series on television. She read the crime columns in the papers every morning with relish and offered commentary, and the repeated observation that the world was a bad place, and getting worse.

‘Beta, you adjust.
Adjust
. He didn't want to talk about work, so I didn't. That's how you go along. That's what this new generation doesn't understand.'

She meant Sartaj's generation, and Megha's. She knew that Megha was married, finally and completely out of Sartaj's reach, but occasionally she would revisit what had happened, what should have happened, what Sartaj should have done. Sartaj had long given up arguing, or even responding with anything other than the occasional ‘Yes'. He lay back and listened. She was his mother, and he adjusted.

‘Achcha, go to sleep now,' she said, ‘or you'll be tired for your shift.'

‘Yes, Ma,' Sartaj said. They said their goodbyes, and he turned towards the window so he could feel the air on his face. He fell into sleep easily, and dreamed. He dreamt of an enormous plain, a cloudless sky, an endless line of walking figures. He woke abruptly. The phone was ringing.

It was before seven, he knew that without opening his eyes. There was that stillness, in which a single bird was chittering. He waited, but the phone was not going to stop. He reached for it.

‘Sartaj,' his mother said, ‘you must help that girl.'

‘What?'

‘That woman from last night, the one you told me about. You should help her.'

‘Ma, have you slept?'

‘Where is she going to go? What is she going to do? She's alone.'

‘Ma, Ma, listen to me. Are you all right?'

‘Of course I'm all right. What would be wrong with me?'

‘Fine. But why all this about that stupid woman?'

‘I was just thinking this morning. You should help her.'

Sartaj kneaded his eyes, and listened to the bird. Women were mysteri
ous, and mothers were more mysterious. Ma was quiet now, but it was her strict silence. It was a calm that tolerated no back-talk, no resistance. He wanted very much to go back to sleep. ‘Yes, all right. Okay.'

‘Sartaj, I'm serious.'

‘I am too. Really, I will.'

‘She's all alone.'

So was everyone else in the world, Sartaj wanted to say. But he mustered up obedience. ‘I understand, Ma. Promise I'll help her.'

‘I'm going to the gurudwara now.'

He had no idea what that had to do with calling him out of a perfectly good slumber, but he whispered, ‘Yes, Ma,' and hung up the phone. Sartaj's bed was moulded to his body, the bird was not too loud, the morning was cool under his silent fan, but sleep was gone. He cursed Kamala Pandey. Saali Kamala Pandey, she is a kutiya, he said to the bird, bloody raand, and he got up.

 

Sartaj spent the morning writing redundant reports on small burglaries which would be perfunctorily investigated and never solved. His afternoon trickled away in court, between two magistrates and three cases. At five he drank a cup of tea in the restaurant across the road, and ate a greasy omelette. The restaurant was called Shiraz, and was full of gossiping lawyers. Sartaj hid himself away at the rear of the first-floor air-conditioned annexe, and tried to avoid meeting the lawyers' eyes as they walked to the washbasin. He chugged down a tall glass of chaas, wiped his moustache and started to feel better. He managed to get through the annexe without having to talk to anyone, and all the way down the stairs. But half-way to the entrance a weedy, pock-face rose up to intercept him.

‘You're Sartaj Singh?'

This wasn't a lawyer. His grey shirt was sweat-stained, and he had the mean, foxy deference of someone used to people stepping around him. But he had a voice that made up for his build, brassy and deep. ‘Who are you?' Sartaj said.

‘You don't remember. I met you at the funeral. And two-three times before that.'

Of course. This voice. ‘You're Katekar's…Shalini's sister's husband.'

‘Vishnu Ghodke, saab.'

‘Vishnu Ghodke, yes. Yes.' Sartaj remembered him from the funeral, but not before that. At the funeral he had been busy bringing things, organiz
ing the mourners, directing the priests. ‘Everything all right, Vishnu?'

Vishnu Ghodke touched his breastbone. ‘By your blessings, saab. Although…'

Sartaj nodded. ‘Yes. Katekar was a good man.' He waited for Ghodke to step aside. ‘We'll meet again some time.'

Ghodke wasn't ready to leave Sartaj quite yet. He turned sideways to let Sartaj pass, and then followed him out on to the pavement. ‘Have you seen Dada's boys?' he said into Sartaj's shoulder.

Sartaj was abruptly aware that he didn't like Vishnu Ghodke very much. He wasn't quite sure why, but he wanted to put a hand over his face and back him fast into the wall. ‘Yes, I saw them yesterday. In the evening yesterday. Are they all right?'

‘Of course, of course, saab. No, nothing like that.'

‘Then like what?'

‘Was their Aai there?'

‘No, she was out.'

Vishnu Ghodke turned his head to the side, to look across the evening swell of cars towards the court house. Above his head was the red ‘Shiraz' sign, with the lettering delicately arranged in four languages. ‘This is what, saab?' he said, coming back to Sartaj. ‘What is it? A woman should be at home. A woman should be with her family.'

‘She has to work, Vishnu.'

‘But this is not work, roaming about in the evening, leaving her children to go hungry.' He was making wide gestures towards the road and the courts beyond, as if Shalini was running wild among the black robes and the stained arches.

Sartaj's shoulders came up, he felt the dense throb of violence along his forearms. Maderchod. This bastard had to show up now, today. ‘Those boys are fed and happy,' he said. ‘Their home is well-kept. What is it that's tickling your gaand?' Vishnu Ghodke squirmed away, found the wall behind him. ‘Haan? Tell me.'

‘Saab, I was just saying…'

‘Saying what?'

‘She has started going to these meetings.' Vishnu was trying to find a quiet voice now, an intimate one. He wanted to be a man talking reasonably to another man.

‘They talk about health. So?'

‘Saab, health is one thing. But they tell them all these, these uncivilized things. All these things that are not fit for decent women. And they tell
them to go about and talk to young girls and spread it into the community. Why does a young, unmarried girl need to know about pregnancy and nirodh and all? I have young girls, I am a father, and I tell you it is becoming very difficult. As it is, you never know what can be on television, right in the middle of the day. It is impossible for a family to sit together and watch. And then we have people like this, educated people who catch women like Shalini and turn their heads.'

Sartaj considered clouting this defender of the culture, once on each scrawny cheek. But that wouldn't smash any sense into his head, it would only make him more militant in his defence of his daughters. ‘You don't worry about Shalini's head,' he said. ‘And she's not talking to your daughters. If she says something to them you don't like, tell her to stop.'

‘That woman won't listen to anyone, saab. Her husband is gone, so she thinks she can do what she wants.'

‘So she won't listen to you. Is this why you are angry?'

Vishnu brushed at his shoulder, where the plaster from the wall had left a streak. He had grown confident as he had spoken, had forgotten some of his fear. ‘Saab, I am not concerned about myself. I am only thinking of the boys, and that home. That home will suffer. We have a saying:
gharala paya rashtrala baya
.'

Sartaj reached out and put a hand on Vishnu's shoulder. He smiled. To the passing pedestrians, they were just two friends passing the time with friendly banter. But Vishnu was squirming already from the pressure of Sartaj's thumb just under his collarbone. ‘So now you're worried about the country also?' Sartaj said. ‘You listen to me, Vishnu. I don't like you going around talking, making trouble for her. You think you're some bhenchod saint? You wander around like some bastard loudspeaker, spewing lies.'

‘But it's all true, saab.'

Sartaj squeezed, and now Vishnu was truly afraid. ‘It's true that she's trying to take care of her boys. And do some good. You're a small man, Vishnu. Your brain is small, your heart is small, so you think small of people. You're a small, mean bastard, Vishnu. I don't like you. So shut up. Keep your mouth closed. Understand?'

Vishnu's eyes were sparkling with tears. He had a hand picking at Sartaj's wrist, but he couldn't get away from the pain.

‘Understand?'

‘Yes,' Vishnu said. But he had the persistence of a cornered rat, this Vishnu. He whispered, looking away, ‘But I'm not the only one saying it. Other people are saying it as well.'

Sartaj let go of him, and leaned in close. ‘Yes, other maderchods like you are always ready to say this and that about a woman who is alone. Especially when you are such a decent brother-in-law that you start these rumours yourself. So you'd better keep quiet.' Vishnu nodded, keeping his eyes down. Of course he wouldn't stop. Of course he would keep at it, add and embroider. But now he knew there would be consequences. ‘If I hear you're making trouble, I'll come and look for you, Vishnu. She needs your help now. Live with her as a family should, Vishnu. Help her make that home strong, don't destroy it with your mouth.'

Vishnu was working his jaw, but was keeping his head down and his mouth shut, as instructed. Sartaj had no doubt he would open it as soon as he felt safe. Sartaj patted his cheek gently. ‘I'll be watching you,' he said, and walked away.

 

Gharala paya rashtrala baya
. So if the stability and prosperity of a house depended on its foundations, and that of a country on its women, what was Sartaj going to do about the glossy and very unreliable Kamala Pandey? He had his unambiguous instructions from Ma, and despite the distance, and his age, he did usually go along with what she wanted. For the most part. But she was a sentimentalist, wanting to rescue fallen women from their troubles. She was from another generation, and she had no idea what kind of trouble Kamala Pandey was. She could have no conception of how much Kamala Pandey annoyed Sartaj. It was easy to say, you must help that girl. Much harder to tolerate the bitch.

Sartaj let it sit in his stomach for three days. He went about his business, investigated, arrested, wrote reports, drank, slept. Kamala Pandey stayed with him, and it was pleasurable to think of her in trouble, of her wincing and cowering under the shower of abusive language that came in over her mobile phone, of her money being taken from her. Yes, she should learn that the world was not made for her delectation. Yes, she should know that she couldn't have just whatever she wanted. On the fourth day the relish ebbed, and by that evening it had been replaced by a dragging feeling of responsibility.

‘What's the matter, Sartaj?' Majid Hussain said.

They were standing on Majid's balcony, waiting for dinner. Sartaj was nursing his second glass of Black Label. Majid was wearing red shorts, and drinking fresh mausambi juice, and was speaking with the quiet authority of an old friend who knew exactly when Sartaj was being more morose than usual. He would press on until Sartaj talked. So Sartaj told
him about Kamala Pandey, the whole story. ‘She's one fancy item,' he said. ‘Shows off her money. So some boys are taking some of it off her.'

Majid stroked his moustache upward. He had a spreading motion with thumb and index finger that he used when he was concentrating. ‘Very interesting. I don't think there's a real problem with the case.' He meant that keeping it off the station books wouldn't be very difficult, or unusual. There was the possibility of good money, which always made discretion possible. Majid raised his glass. ‘And, Sartaj, if she's so nam-keen, investigating her could be fun.'

‘Arre, Majid, I'm not interested in her.'

This made Majid straighten up, turn to Sartaj. ‘Yaar, you said that she was sexy. She's giving it everywhere. She's got the chaska for it. So what does interest and no interest have to do with it? Take some.'

The logic was impeccable: if a woman was unfaithful once, she was therefore definitely available. Blackmailers sometimes used knowledge of an affair to take for themselves, to grab what was being distributed. Kamala Pandey's blackmailers hadn't tried that yet, but maybe they would, once she had run out of money. This was how the economy worked, there were many ways to pay. Sartaj spat over the railing. ‘Ma said I should help her,' he said.

‘Of course she would.'

‘But…'

‘You don't have interest in the money, you don't have interest in the woman.' Majid shrugged. ‘So don't help her.'

‘Yes. But what about those blackmailer bastards?'

They nodded at each other, grinning. They knew each other too well. Whatever he thought of Kamala Pandey, Sartaj was certain that he completely, unambiguously hated the blackmailers. He didn't like them operating in his zone, in his locality, in his area, in his mohalla. Maderchods, bhenchods, he wanted to squeeze their golis and see if they cried. Majid, who was scratching his thigh under his shorts, felt the same way. Sartaj could see it. Majid had a theory that all really good cops came from strong mothers. He had met Sartaj's mother, and his own Ammi was a tiny, wizened harridan who terrorized her daughters-in-law and still arranged marriages for her grandchildren without consulting anyone. Majid thought that a mother who kept an orderly house, who maintained cleanliness and had clear rules about what was right and what was wrong, actually ended up training her sons to be good policemen. He would list the names of department men he admired, and tell you about
their mothers. Sartaj thought there was something to Majid's theory. Katekar's mother, for instance, had been a tough, massive-hipped matriarch. Years after her death, Katekar had spoken of her anger with awe.