Sacred Games

  She would be frightened and angry when they got her, but I had no choice. If I had issued her an invitation to meet me, she would have refused, no matter how much I pleaded. So the boys did what they had to do: they waited until morning, outside Jojo’s building. She drove out at ten-thirty, alone in her blue Toyota. They followed her down Yari Road, and north towards Goregaon. They were in two cars and a van, and it took them just ten minutes to neatly box her in and drive along, with the van on the rear. Then the car in front of Jojo braked hard, and the van clanged on her rear bumper and pushed her forward for a gentle three-vehicle accident. They were travelling slowly, there was no danger of anyone getting hurt, but Jojo got out of her car spitting maderchods and bhenchods. She was too angry at the girl driving the van to notice the three men who got out of the car in front, and the other two in the car to the side. I’d told them all that Jojo was not to be hit, and I wasn’t sure the sight of a ghoda would be enough to keep her from fighting and screaming, even if it was held to her head. So they used an Omega stun gun. As Jojo ranted at the girl, one of the boys pressed the stun gun into her hip, just above her belt, and let her have a thirty-second shot. There was a crackling sound, and Jojo gave out a little scream that turned into a whine, and then she went to the ground. Using a stun gun is a risky business: you can give some people a jolt, and they feel the ferocious snake-bite, and they just get angrier and break your skull. I had been afraid that Jojo would start kicking the boys in the golis, but she collapsed and twitched and rolled her eyes back and was out for a good ten minutes. By which time she was in the back of the van, hands and feet gently roped, too jangled to do anything but slobber on to the seat. The other cars – including Jojo’s – followed, and so this little procession brought her to me.

  I took delivery at the door – shielded from the shopkeepers’ eyes by the bulk of the van – I took her and shut the door, and carried her down the staircase. I laid her on the bed, propped her head on a soft pillow and brought her some cold water. I held the glass to her lips, and then wiped up the slabber from her chin and neck. She mumbled something, all thick-voiced and wet. Her mouth was rubbery and out of control, I could tell, but by now her eyes were concentrated and very alive. She looked at me, she glanced right and left to take in the room.

  ‘Relax, Jojo,’ I said. ‘A few minutes and everything will be all right. Here, drink some water.’

  But she clamped her chin and gave me a spiky glare, sharp enough to take my head off. She tried to speak, and again it turned into a saliva-dribbling slur. I cleaned her up, and then I sat back and looked at her. She was thinner than I remembered from the photographs, a little pinched around the lips. In the pictures she had always had a luxurious red mouth, and for the last many years I had always imagined her like that, every day. But that was all right. This was the early morning for her, she had just woken up and was heading to her gym, she hadn’t had time to put on her lipstick. I understood about women and their make-up. Jojo looked a little older than I had expected, I hadn’t known about the lines on her neck, or the wrinkly skin on her hands. But she was attractive all the same, a taut, well-maintained item with thick, highlighted brown hair and a slim body. I could see her flat stomach where her top had ridden up a bit, over the low-slung jeans.

  She saw me looking, and she raised her head from the pillow. This time, she paused before each word, and formed it with exacting, laborious precision. She said, ‘Who. Are. You?’

  I clapped my chin, and laughed. ‘Arre, Jojo. Sorry, yaar. I never told you. I changed my face. For security reasons. I am Ganesh. Ganesh Gaitonde. Gaitonde.’

  She shook her head. ‘Zo-ya said.’

  So Zoya had told her about my surgery. Never trust a woman with your security. Maybe I should have had that kutiya Zoya shot after I had discarded her. But never mind that randi, here was Jojo still quite scared and suspicious and hostile. I had to convince her that I was me, that I was the Ganesh Gaitonde who spoke to her every day. Was my voice that different, was it so altered by distance and electricity? But no matter. I had to become Ganesh Gaitonde for Jojo in this face-to-face meeting, even though both our faces were changed from those we had imagined during our long friendship. I told her about how we had first spoken to each other, so long ago, and how we had become yaars. I told her about the girls that she had sent to me, and the jokes we had made afterwards. I told her about the virgins I had taken, and the payments that I made to her for their freshness. I told her about the projects I had funded for her, and about the problems I had talked to her about. I told her how she had cursed me, and called me ‘Gaitonde’.

  By the time I had finished with my little history, she was sitting up on the bed, her arms hugging her knees tightly to her chest. And she knew who I was. But I had no idea whether she was curious or angry, afraid or puzzled. I couldn’t read her. I knew her voice, but I didn’t know her body at all. She had to say something for me to know what she was feeling. I waited.

  She opened her mouth, shut it. She was testing her ability, her tongue and lips, and finally she decided she was recovered. ‘What has happened to you, Gaitonde?’ she said.

  I had been expecting an angry curse or two, and a demand to know why I had shocked her, and brought her here to my shelter without her permission. I had my explanation ready, and now it came out in a great rush, and I told her about yagnas and bombs, and dollars and sadhus, and fire and the end of a yuga. As I talked, she got up from the bed and edged around the room. She was still a bit unsteady on her feet, and had to put a hand out to the wall to balance herself. But she was quite alert, and she was examining the room, what was in it, where the doors were. Even as I babbled, I felt a surge of pride in her. She was doing what I would have done myself. She looked at the mini-gym, opened the doors to the toilets. Then she made her way to the doorway leading to the control room. I followed her through, still talking.

  ‘Where are we?’ she said. ‘Why do you have that gun?’

  I could see why she was confused. I had four of the monitors on, American and Indian and Chinese news on three of them, the internet on the other. She was disorientated, she had blacked out and didn’t know how much time had passed. She thought she was maybe in Malaysia, or Spain. It could be anywhere.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jojo,’ I said. ‘We’re still in Bombay. But we’re safe. Don’t worry.’

  Now she turned to me. She was shorter than I was, but she stood very straight and drew her shoulders back and threw her hair back over her shoulder with a swaying toss of the head. Watching that one little movement gave me an instant understanding of why she always had a queue of men waiting to be her next thoku. I noted this objectively, as a fact about Jojo. In that moment, in the condition I was in, there was no stirring of physical desire in me, least of all for Jojo. All I wanted was for her to talk to me.

  ‘Gaitonde,’ she said, ‘you’re insane.’ She spoke to me in the voice she used for scolding her servants, which was low, decisive and unrelenting. ‘You need to have your bheja checked by a doctor. Forget that, it’s too late for that, you should just march to a madhouse and admit yourself. Tell the nurses to put chains on your hands and feet so you won’t go bothering other people…’

  ‘Jojo, listen to me.’

  ‘No, you listen to me. Who do you think you are? You think you’re some king, you can just kidnap people? You can just shock somebody like they were some animal and have them dragged down to you? You bastard, just because everyone in the world is afraid of you, you think you can do anything? I’m not afraid of you, maderchod.’

  She had her face thrust up into mine, her fingers jabbing towards my eyes. She cursed me again, and a burst of spit stung my cheek, and then another.

  I wanted to hit her.

  But this was Jojo, I wanted to take care of her. I pulled myself away, I put up my hands, I took a breath. ‘You’re disturbed right now. I understand. But let me explain to you, Jojo. We have been friends for many years. Think how long it has been. I could have done thi
s at any time, I never did. So just calmly listen to me. Afterwards, if you don’t agree, you can do whatever you want.’

  She tilted her head down and watched me. I could see that she was calculating and weighing, taking in me and the room and her chances. But I couldn’t tell whether she was going to give in or give me a slap. I should have set her up with a video-conferencing camera, so I could have watched her neck and her angry shoulders all these years. I thought I knew her, but I should have known more of her.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But talk fast. I have lots of work to do today.’

  I sat her down in an armchair in the control room, and got her a fresh glass of water. I asked if she was cold, and turned down the air-conditioner. Then I gave her the reality of what was happening. I told her everything, point by point. I showed her a chart in an old edition of India Today in which they had printed the possible numbers of dead and wounded in Mumbai after a nuclear blast. I found her a website which showed actual footage of explosions and trembling survivors. I showed her recommendations for safety procedures, and lists of materials necessary for survival.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Wait.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You want me to stay down here? You mean, live in this thing?’

  She was incredulous, disbelieving and then contemptuous. Now I had no difficulty in deciphering the furrows on her forehead, the quality of her scowl. And suddenly, this hardened haven on which I had lavished untold suitcases of money seemed small and inhospitable. ‘It’s not so bad,’ I said. ‘It’s very comfortable, actually. You’ve got the best beds, everything is air-conditioned. There is a gym, you can exercise. There is filtered water. Communications are excellent. You can work easily from down here.’

  ‘Till when?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How long are you going to stay down here?’

  I was surprised. The answer was obvious. The Jojo on the phone had always been smarter than this one, she had never needed so many explanations. ‘Till it’s over,’ I said. ‘Or not over.’

  Now Jojo disappeared. She vanished behind that incomprehensible face, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. But when she spoke, I recognized her again. She was very soft now, she was the gentle, generous-hearted woman who spoke to me about my problems and my stress and what kind of food I should be eating. ‘Gaitonde, why don’t you sit down? You need to relax, or you’ll give yourself piles again.’

  She had a grin on her face, and I thought, this is what she looks like when she gives out that gurgly chuckle. I hadn’t realized I was standing. ‘Yes, yes.’ I sat.

  She drew up her chair close to me, pulled up her feet and sat cross-legged. I laughed, because this I knew about her – she had told me that sometimes during official meetings with important types she forgot where she was and sat like that, like a proper Konkani bai straight from the village. She nodded, and gave me a smile. I felt better instantly. This was the Jojo I knew. ‘Okay, Gaitonde,’ she said. ‘Tell me – till what’s over?’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening? The whole thing,’ I said. ‘If I find him, then I can stop it. Then it’s over. If I can’t find him, then it doesn’t stop. Until it all stops.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘There’s this Guru-ji. You need to find him. Right, right. And how long will that take?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could happen at any time.’

  ‘Today, you mean?’

  ‘Or tomorrow.’

  ‘Or a few days?’

  ‘Months, maybe. But if I can’t find him, it has to stop sometime. It’s inevitable. You can see that.’

  ‘But Gaitonde, I can’t stay here for that long. I have a business. I can’t run it from here. I have to meet people, I have to see girls. I have to run around everywhere.’

  ‘You can call them from here. We can set up the room upstairs like a reception room. A sofa, a desk. Very easy.’

  ‘But,’ she said, ‘but, Gaitonde.’

  She wasn’t fighting me any more, but of course she thought that the task ahead was impossible. Anybody would who hadn’t led my life, who hadn’t achieved my level of understanding, who hadn’t left behind so many certainties that turned out to be illusions. I knew the truth, that finally safety was a room on a yacht, or a cave under the earth. I had to bring her along slowly. ‘Jojo,’ I said, ‘just try it for a day.’

  ‘Just a day?’

  ‘One day and one night. Tomorrow if you want to go, you go home.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘You need me to promise? When Ganesh Gaitonde says he’ll do something, he does it. But for you, Jojo,’ – I touched my throat – ‘I swear.’

  I showed her the treadmill, and the weights. She didn’t want to exercise, though, said it was too late in the day now and she was going to miss some phone calls and appointments. So I cleared a desk for her – swept away newspapers and maps, magazines and financial charts – and gave her a phone for herself. I did my own work as she made her calls. At two o’clock – precisely her preferred time – I brought her lunch. It was the Konkani food that she loved, all kokum and fiery fish. She picked at her plate, and I watched her. Somehow it was hard to speak to her. We had had lunch together before, with me on the yacht and her at her house. Then, we crunched and munched into each other’s ears, and talked and talked. Jojo called this our gazali sessions, during which she would give me the latest gossip about friends of hers, and I would make her laugh with the new idiocies committed by my boys. There was no reason why we couldn’t have those easy jokes again, that laughter. I had collected new escapades, I wanted to tell her about an idea I had for a new television serial. And yet the silence sat between us, like a great black dog on the table. But I was Ganesh Gaitonde, I wasn’t scared of anything, I tossed aside the discomfort. ‘Jojo,’ I said, ‘you want to watch a film tonight? We can get pre-release prints, the very latest ones.’

  She slid her plate to the middle of the table. ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘But I am asking what you would like.’

  ‘I don’t care. We can watch what you want to watch.’

  ‘But you must have an opinion.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t care.’

  She had her knees drawn up again, and her hair fell like a curtain, hiding her face from me. I reached out and turned her chair to me, but I could see only her jeans, and the tight clutch of one hand around the other. ‘Arre, baba,’ I said softly, ‘of course you care. There’s never been an upcoming film you haven’t loved or hated in advance.’

  She bayed at me, ‘Maderchod, Gaitonde, I told you I don’t care!’ Her cheeks were dark with blood. ‘Get whatever chutiya film you want!’

  Nobody spoke to me like that. Nobody shouted at me. I wanted to hit her.

  But I got up and walked away. Without looking at her, I told her, ‘I’m going to rest. For a while.’

  I lay down on the bed, curled my arm over my eyes. I could hear Jojo moving around in the other room. There was a click, plastic against plastic. Was she going to make a call? Who was she calling? Would she call my enemies? Or the police? Tell them where I was, so she could get out of here? No, she wouldn’t do that. She couldn’t. However upset she was, despite the nervousness that was moving through her body and making her tremble, she would never do that to me. She was Jojo, and I was Ganesh Gaitonde. We were together, we needed each other. She was going from one end of the room to the other. What was she doing? Wood ground against concrete. Was she moving a table? Why? Now she was quiet. Where was she? A narrow creak of metal. Ah, she was climbing the stairs. She wanted to get out. She was going to try. No matter. I had shut the steel trapdoor. You couldn’t open it without pressing a nine-key combination, or – in case of electrical failure – you had to snap out a panel and then turn two wheels simultaneously. She must be pulling at the handle at the bottom of the door. Let her.

  ‘Gaitonde,’ she said. She was standing in the doorway. ‘Gaitonde, do you want women?’

&nb
sp; ‘What?’

  She came out of the shadow. ‘I have two new, fine items. Fresh from Delhi.’ Her face and shoulders were shiny with sweat. ‘I swear, they’re better than anything you’ve had before. Once you have these, you’ll think that Zoya was some third-class randi working behind Andheri station.’

  ‘I don’t want any items.’

  ‘But, Gaitonde, they’ll come down here and live with you. Both of them. Think about that. One is sixteen, and the other is seventeen, and you can have them both. They’ll be happy to be here. Really. They’ll stay with you as long as you like.’

  ‘I don’t want them.’

  ‘Gaitonde, the sixteen-year-old, I’m going to have her hair dyed golden. She looks just like some foreign model, she’s got skin like malai.’

  ‘No.’

  When she was trying to persuade you of something, she tilted her head down and looked up at you through her eyelashes, and her hair fell in smooth curves around her jaw, like a dark helmet. ‘I don’t want to be here.’

  ‘Just try till morning…’

  ‘Gaitonde, I’m telling you now, I don’t want to be here.’

  ‘Just try for a few hours at least.’

  ‘I know now what I want. And I’m telling you, I need to get out of here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s driving me crazy. It won’t get better, only worse.’

  ‘We can change everything, bring in whatever you like.’

  She screamed. Her whole body clenched towards its centre, she hunched over, and out of her came a long tearing squall that knocked me upright. ‘Shut up,’ I said. But her eyes were watery and blank, and she took a breath, and again made that haggard wail that fell against my face like a slap.

  I took her by the shoulders and shook her. She fought me, turning inside my arms and jabbing sharp elbows into my ribs. Something burned against my chin, and I let go of her and touched my face with the tips of my fingers. They came away with a slick covering of pink. The bhenchod kutiya had claws.

  She was circling her hands in the air, in front of her chest. ‘Don’t you understand? I can’t stay like this. I can’t. I have to go out. You can’t keep me in this jail.’