Sacred Games Read Free

Sartaj heard the laughter from Parulkar’s cabin well before he could see it, while he was still twisting through the warren of cubicles piled high with paper. Sartaj knocked sharply on the lustrous wood of Parulkar’s door, then pushed it open. There was a quick upturning of laughing faces, and Sartaj saw that even the national newspapers had come out for the story of Parulkar’s initiative, or at least for his poetry. He was good copy.
    â€˜Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Parulkar said, raising one proud, pointing hand. ‘My most daring officer, Sartaj Singh.’ The correspondents lowered their teacups with a long clatter and looked at Sartaj sceptically. Parulkar walked around the desk, tugging at his belt. ‘One minute, please. I’ll talk to him outside for a moment, then he will tell you about our initiative.’
    Parulkar shut the door, and led Sartaj around the back of the cabin, to a very small kitchen which now boasted a gleaming new Brittex water filter on its wall. Parulkar pressed buttons and a bright stream of water fell into the glass he held below.
    â€˜It tastes very pure, sir,’ Sartaj said. ‘Very good indeed.’
    Parulkar was drinking deep draughts from a steel tumbler. ‘I asked them for their best model,’ he said. ‘Because clean water is absolutely necessary.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Sartaj took a sip. ‘Sir – “daring”?’
    â€˜They like daring. And you had better be daring if you want to stay in this job.’
    Parulkar had sloping shoulders and a pear-shaped body that defeated the best tailors, and his uniform was crumpled already, but that was only usual. There was a sag in his voice, a resignation in his sideways glance that Sartaj had never known. ‘Is something wrong, sir? Is there some complication with the initiative, sir?’
    â€˜No, no, no complication with the initiative. No, nothing to do with that at all. It is something else.’
    â€˜Yes, sir?’
    â€˜They are after me.’
    â€˜Who, sir?’
    â€˜Who else?’ Parulkar said with unusual asperity. ‘The government. They want me out. They think I’ve gone high enough.’
    Parulkar was now a deputy commissioner of police, and he had once been a lowly sub-inspector. He had risen through the Maharashtra State Police, and he had made that near-impossible leap into the august Indian Police Service, and he had done it alone, with good police work, a sense of humour, and very long hours. It had been an astonishing and unparalleled career, and he had risen to become Sartaj’s mentor. He emptied his glass, and poured more water from his new Brittex filter.
    â€˜Why, sir?’ Sartaj said. ‘Why?’
    â€˜I was too close to the previous government. They think I’m a Congress man.’
    â€˜So they may want you out. That doesn’t mean anything. You have lots of years left before retirement.’
    â€˜You remember Dharmesh Mathija?’
    â€˜Yes, that’s the fellow who built our wall.’ Mathija was a builder, one of the more conspicuously successful ones in the northern suburbs, a man whose ambition showed like a sweaty fever on his forehead. He had built, in record time, the extension of the compound wall at the rear of the station, around the recently filled lowland. There was now a Hanuman temple and a small lawn and young trees that you could see from the offices to the rear of the building. Parulkar’s passion was improvement. He said it often: we must improve. Mathija and Sons had improved the station, and of course they had done it for free. ‘So what about Mathija, sir?’
    Parulkar was taking little sips of water, swirling it about in his mouth. ‘I was called to the DG’s office yesterday, early.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜The DG had a call from the home minister. Mathija has threatened to file a case. He said he was forced to do some work for me.