Sacred Games

  ‘Uncle, what’s wrong? Shall I call a nurse? Are you in pain?’

  In the flaring of an electric bulb, Anjali is leaning over him. He shakes his head, and reaches for her hand. He is unable to speak, but he tries to smile at her, all the while shaking his head. She holds him. She sits on the bed and holds him in her lap.

  ‘What is it?’ she says. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she says.

  K.D. is not afraid. He feels no fear at all, at least not for himself. But he can find no words for the great compassion that heats his body, this illusory carcass of damaged flesh. In his collapsing mind there is a fear for Anjali, for the life that surges through this strong young woman who holds him. She values her life, clings to it, as do her colleagues, her friends, her family. I must help her, K.D. thinks. I must. He casts back through his life, and through all that he knows and remembers, and now that he is thinking and has a purpose, his trembling stops. He lies still in Anjali’s arms and thinks. Now there is that old joy of cogitation, and the information flows in an intertwining of streams, bright with colour and image and smell. It moves and he swims in it and changes angle and nudges it together in many and various arrangements: it feels like he is ambling through a kaleidoscope. There is that old pleasure. When the sky begins to grey outside, he stirs. ‘The money in Gaitonde’s bunker,’ he says.

  Anjali is leaning back against the headboard, and she comes out of her slumber. ‘What?’ she says.

  ‘There was money in Gaitonde’s bunker. You said something about wrapping.’

  ‘The bundles were wrapped in clear, thin plastic. Like the kind that toys are wrapped in sometimes. Or chocolate.’

  ‘Five bundles together? A stack like this?’

  She looks at the shape he is making with his hands, the emptiness he holds in the air. Her eyes are sequined with pinpoints of early morning light. ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘I want to see the money,’ he says.

  She runs across the room to her mobile phone, and he sits up to the fast blip of her dialling. She rattles out orders, and comes back to him. ‘It’s on the way,’ she says.

  But they both know it could take a while, to cut through the bureaucracy of the organization, to wake up people and have permissions given and safes opened. K.D. may not have time, he may forget. So he has her sit next to him and tells her, while he still has the facts. He tells her what he knows, what he remembers. ‘Much of our Indian currency used to be printed in the Soviet Union. The Pakis ran an op after the Union fell apart, when everything was for sale. They tried to buy the original plates from the Russians. If they had got the plates, they would have been able to run a counterfeit operation that would have produced genuine notes, perfect money. But we got wind of it and got the plates from the factory. We killed their operation. But the Pakis did manage to get hold of very substantial amounts of original currency paper. We were too late to prevent that. With that paper, they’ve produced large-sum Indian currency, several series of big notes. They have some very talented technicians. The forgeries are brilliant. I’ve seen some of the notes, from seizures in Jammu and Amritsar. They are very good. They were completely wrapped in plastic, in stacks like this.’

  Anjali nods, fast. ‘Very good for transportation, in all kinds of conditions.’

  ‘Yes, in any weather. The operation in Russia was run by an ISI man named Shahid Khan, who was a major at the time. He’s good. I had known him before, from when he was with their embassy in London.’

  ‘Shahid Khan,’ Anjali says.

  ‘Shahid Khan,’ K.D. says. ‘Very religious fellow. Hard worker. One of their best. Shahid Khan got the paper.’

  She writes rapidly, on a white pad. He listens to the scratch of her pen, and when she is finished she waits for him, for more. But this is all he has.

  They wait, together, for the money. Just after one, Amit Sarkar arrives, clutching a briefcase. Anjali holds up the stack for K.D. to look at. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes.’ He can feel himself smiling. The game, he thinks. It runs. He takes Anjali’s pen from her and notches the point into the plastic and pulls. From this cut he pulls a note, and holds it towards the window, towards the brightness of the day. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes. I think it’s their money.’ He has no idea what this means to Anjali, or whether it means anything at all. But they are all happy: it is something.

  Anjali takes the money, takes her pad, hugs K.D. and hurries away. She must go, but she leaves Amit Sarkar with K.D., to listen, to watch over him. The organization still wants him to play, but it is too late. K.D. lies back in his bed, his arms spread wide. His pillows are very comfortable, good to feel against his cheeks. He is tired. It’s time to rest. He shuts his eyes. He breathes, and sleeps.

  Money

  Put all together, Katekar’s benefits and provident fund and small savings amounted to sixty-seven thousand and seven rupees seventy-four paise. The state government immediately announced a relief amount of two lakhs for his bereaved family, but it took nine and a half months for the cheque to wind its way through the convolutions of Mantralaya and the exacting attentions of many departmental clerks. By the time Shalini had the cheque cleared and the money deposited, it was almost a year to the day after her husband’s death. She now spent her days speeding through six households where she washed clothes and dishes, did jhadoo-katka, and for this cleansing of homes was paid a thousand rupees by each. With two growing sons, this was not nearly enough, and it was a very steep drop from the days when her husband had brought home packets of cash. Now, finally, there were these two lakhs sitting in her account, and two lakhs seemed rather a lot to have at once, but Shalini knew well that sudden and fat chunks of money produced only an illusion of well-being. This is what she was now trying to explain to her sister.

  ‘Bharti,’ she said. ‘Two lakhs seems like a lot. But how many days are there in a lifetime? How long will these two lakhs last, over three lifetimes? I have young boys. I have to pay for their school, all their books. And anything could happen. We could need the money at any time.’

  Bharti was sitting cross-legged on a pillow she had taken from the shelf, with the table-fan full upon her. She wiped her face with her pallu, and ducked her head in that way she had when she was annoyed. ‘Tai, if you are not going to spend it, what good is it doing sitting in that bank? We need it now, and he says the interest he will give you will be larger than the bank’s.’ Bharti’s husband, Vishnu Ghodke, had two friends who were going to start a travel agency. He was to be the very smallest partner, but even for that he needed five lakhs, and he had less than three. Shalini was suddenly sitting on more than two. And so Bharti was here, on a Thursday evening, looking hot and angry. ‘He says it’s a sure business. People are travelling more and more. And both his partners have contacts in Bahrain and Saudi, and thousands want to go there. Thousands and thousands.’

  Shalini shook her head. ‘Bharti, even if crores and crores want to go to Saudi, I can’t give this money. I am alone. I am alone and I have to take care of my boys.’

  The thrust of Bharti’s jaw was very bitter now. ‘What about us? You have us. Don’t you have any trust in us?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of trust or no trust.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Bharti, anything can happen. Anything.’ It was life that you couldn’t place any trust in. It was this life that fell out from under your feet, that left you falling and lost.

  ‘But you are safe, tai. He’ll pay you in monthly instalments, so there will be money coming in. In addition to what you are earning already. And you don’t have any rent to pay. You will never be that badly off.’

  Shalini and he had paid six lakhs for this safety over their heads, seven years ago. They had paid in four painful instalments, all in cash, all of it squeezed from thousands of washed plates and petticoats, from innumerable fifty and hundred-rupee bribes. So now she and her sons had a roof, two rooms, a kitchen, that was their own. That is what he had wanted, to own, to have a patch of earth that was not government pr
operty or a landlord’s estate, he had wanted the safety of home. He had given them that. And then he was dead. The knowledge of his absence came to Shalini in a muscular twinge through her back and into her stomach, as it did now and again. She took a long breath, and then another. ‘I can’t do it,’ she said. ‘Bharti, I can’t risk the money. Just think.’

  ‘You are the one always thinking, tai. Thinking and thinking. But we people, we listen to our hearts. And so we thought we would ask you. We thought you would understand.’ Bharti was getting up, gathering her purse and the folds of her sari about her.

  ‘Bharti…’

  ‘No, no, always you’ve been the smart one. Always you think three steps ahead. Always you get what you want because you think. But we are not like that.’

  Shalini knew that to protest would immediately reopen and unreel a long and bitter discussion about a gold necklace that their mother had left to her and not to Bharti, and an incident at a family wedding when there had been an argument about the distribution of gift saris, and then exactly how much money had been spent on Shalini’s wedding, and how much on Bharti’s. They both knew completely the contours of these debates, and yet Bharti would finally weep and burn in righteous pain, her round face dissolving into soft infancy. So Shalini watched quietly as Bharti bent to pull the straps of her fancy green sandals over her ankles. Then she said, very gently, ‘At least wait till the boys get back.’

  ‘I left the children at Maushi’s. It’s been too long.’

  Maushi was Vishnu Ghodke’s maushi, who lived three buildings away from them. She was dependable but bad-tempered, and the children could not be left too long under her hard-handed discipline. Shalini thought the boy could use a few more slaps and pinches, but this was no time to criticize Bharti’s son. As Bharti went out of the door, Shalini touched her above the elbow, just a little pat, her usual sisterly greeting and goodbye. But Bharti marched down the street, her head held high and rigid, and then Shalini lowered herself down, sat in the doorway. She allowed herself five minutes of slackness, of an exhausted lapse into complete relaxation. She watched the passers-by. It was almost seven-thirty in the evening, and the home-going rush was at its thickest. The shadows were long already, the days were getting shorter. Soon the nights would need an extra sheet, a blanket. The season was turning. The walkers passed in a steady flow, hypnotic in its even rhythm, the constant scissor motion of legs and ankles, the swing of bags laden with onions and potatoes and atta and soap and coconut oil. Some of the younger ones had smart office briefcases and a faster stride, all purpose and direction. They all passed.

  Five minutes. Shalini knew when they were up. For as long as she could remember, she had had an unerring instinct for time, she could tell it down to the minute without ever needing a watch. She woke always without an alarm, and every day arrived at the station gate precisely six minutes before her train came in. She knew her rest was over, and so she got up. There was only a moment, a heartbeat or two, when her body was reluctant to leave its repose, its luxurious resting on brick and wood. Then Shalini gathered herself up, and got up. ‘Ambabai,’ she said gently, with a glance towards the deity on the shelf, ‘rise, awaken. We have work to do.’

  She had dinner ready when the boys came in. Rohit took half a bucket of water and led his younger brother out. Shalini could hear them murmuring under the splash of water. This was something that their father had insisted on, that when they returned from their games they had to wash their hands and feet before sitting in the house. In his presence they had always muttered against it, treated it as an unbearable fatherly burden, especially Rohit, who refused to do it if his father was not at home. Now that his father was really gone, Rohit performed the evening ablutions with a ritualistic seriousness, and led his brother through it with an unrelenting, police-like discipline. He had become very serious, Rohit had. He spoke to Shalini every morning about what was needed for the house, and went to the bazaar in the afternoon, after school. He brought back exact change, and showed her the lists of accounts he kept in a special notebook. He had a key to the house now, and wore it round his neck on a red string, and took it off only to sleep. As he ate now, he had it slung over his right shoulder, down his bent back.

  ‘All homework is done, Mohit?’ Shalini said.

  Mohit had fast, stubby fingers. He was eating quickly, with his thali held in his lap and his head low. ‘Mmmm,’ he said. ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Aai, he’s got a maths test on Friday,’ Rohit said, ‘that he hasn’t even started studying for.’

  ‘Friday,’ Mohit managed to get out between bites.

  He had a smear of dal on his upper lip. He meant that Friday was three days away, Shalini understood this. He had done quite badly in his last exams, but that was only to be expected of a small boy who had gone to his father’s funeral. Shalini had assumed, as had everyone who knew him, that he would adjust, cope, forget a little, and get back to his quiet, steady ways. But Mohit was still slipping, leaving his work undone while he sped through life on some secret mission. He hid himself behind his bed, in a nook filled with comics with lurid covers featuring moustachioed, pistol-clutching adventurers. He drew rifles in the margins of his notebooks, and muscular heroes firing enormous, blazing guns. He had a private life now, an inner world that Shalini could no longer reach. This happened with children, with sons, but not so soon. She patted the atta off her hands and reached out and tapped the top of his head with her forearm. ‘Start studying tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Want rice?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Shalini fed them, washed up, slid the dishes into the rack on the wall, hung the pot and the pans and the spoons on their designated hooks on the roof. She took up her tooth powder and a glass of water and sat in the doorway. The lane held only a scattering of walkers, who stepped through the throw of light from each door. In another lane, long ago, he had said once that this repetition of light looked like a waterfall. That had been early in their marriage. Yes, she had said, like the cascade at Karla. They had been very poor then, and the trip to Karla and its caves had been a special treat a year after their marriage. He had walked inside the caves, marvelling at their roofs carved to look like wooden beams, and had stood before the stupas and become solemn, despite his scepticism, which even then was sharp and unrelenting. Now, in this lane, everyone was watching Sabse Bada Paisa, and the colours flickered in unison on the mud, up and down the street. She could hear the host’s voice leaping from television to television, offering the chance of very large money. In her house there was a television, and usually there was no watching it this late on a weekday. That had been his rule. Study hard, he said to his sons, and when you have your own house you can watch television whenever you want. He made an exception for Kaun Banega Crorepati, though, because it was a knowledge-based show. Answer the right questions and you could win, you could own a crore, just like that. If you knew enough, you could be rich. Learn, learn, he told his sons, and they watched it together, seated cross-legged in a row. They used to shout out the answers. She used to call them the three monkeys, and they made monkey faces at her. Now Rohit was watching Sabse Bada Paisa intently, and its blues and greens moved across his face. Mohit was back in his nook, muttering out his secret stories to himself. He had lost interest in the show after the funeral. And Shalini sat in her doorway. On the television, the host asked, what is the name of the largest irrigation project ever built in India?

  ‘Arre, Shalu.’

  It was their neighbour, Arpana, with her man, Amritrao Pawar, both walking home in outing clothes. They seemed friendly enough tonight, so they must be going through one of the peace cycles in their lifelong war. Shalini made room for Arpana on the step. ‘Out so late?’ she said.

  ‘My niece’s Kelvan. In Malad.’

  ‘Sudhir’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes. They are doing the wedding near his kholi itself.’

  Arpana had two younger brothers,
and she was close to the youngest. With the middle one, there was a feud of obscure origin. Shalini had heard the whole story when she had first moved into the house and met Arpana the feisty neighbour, but she couldn’t remember the details. For many years she had known Arpana, and watched her quarrel with Amritrao Pawar, who had another woman and another family not so far away. At first Shalini had advised giving him up, sending him away. Then she had seen how they went from fighting to lifelong promises and opulent gifts, and one monsoon night, when she had herself been pregnant, she had gone late to ask Arpana for two onions. And standing outside their door she had heard how they made up, with what extravagant, moaning ecstasies they forgave each other. She understood then why the women on the street laughed when Arpana complained about her man’s indifference and cruelty. He was standing facing them now, this Amritrao Pawar, with his hands in his pockets and a lordly smile of satisfaction teasing his mouth. Shalini didn’t like him looking at her like that. Let him feast on his Arpana. She turned her shoulder to him. ‘How was the boy?’ she said to Arpana.

  ‘Too thin,’ Arpana said. ‘He looked like that drainpipe, only not so black. But the family is good. He has a job at the airport.’ She looked up from massaging her feet, at Amritrao Pawar. ‘Why are you standing here like some lamppost?’

  Shalini was afraid they would start a fight at her door. Sometimes all it took was a certain look. But Amritrao Pawar was happy tonight, and he only burbled into laughter. ‘Waiting for you, rani. But I will wait at home.’

  They watched him go, and Arpana snorted. ‘They were drinking behind the house. He thinks I can’t tell.’ They nodded together at the foolishness of men, and then Arpana leaned in. ‘Bharti came today?’

  ‘Yes. How do you know?’

  ‘That Chitra was on our bus.’ Chitra was another neighbour, two doors down on the right. ‘She said she saw Bharti at the bus stop.’