Sacred Games Read Free Page B

bleak. He sat up, rubbed his face, shook his head violently, and pulled on his shoes. He stalked into the front room, where PSI Kamble was rubbing his stomach lightly in circles. He looked quite satisfied.
    â€˜Good lunch?’ Sartaj said.
    â€˜Absolute top first-class biryani from that new Laziz Restaurant on S.T. Road,’ Kamble said. ‘In a fancy clay pot, you know. We’re getting very pish-posh in Kailashpada.’ Kamble straightened up and leaned closer. ‘Listen. You know those two gaandus who were encountered yesterday by the Flying Squad in Bhayander?’
    â€˜Gaitonde gang, yes?’
    â€˜Right. You know the Gaitonde gang and the Suleiman Isa gang have been stepping up their war again, right? So, I heard the two hits yesterday were a supari given by the S-Company. I heard that the Flying Squad boys made twenty lakhs.’
    â€˜You’d better get in the squad then.’
    â€˜Boss, what do you think I’m saving up for? I hear the going rate to get in is twenty-five lakhs.’
    â€˜Very expensive.’
    â€˜Very,’ Kamble said. His face was aglow, every pore open and alight. ‘But money makes it all happen, my friend, and to make money you have to spend money.’
    Sartaj nodded, and Kamble sank into a register again. Sartaj had once heard it from a slumlord convicted of murder, the bitter secret of life in the metropolis: paisa phek, tamasha dekh . They had literally bumped into each other, walking round a corner in a basti in Andheri. They had recognized each other instantly, despite Sartaj’s plain clothes and the slumlord’s new paunch. Sartaj said, arre, Bahzad Hussain, aren’t you supposed to beserving fifteen years for offing Anwar Yeda? And Bahzad Hussain laughed nervously, and said, Inspector saab, you know how it is, I got parole and now it says in my file that I’m absconding in Bahrain, paisa phek, tamasha dekh . Which was absolutely true: if you had money to throw, you could watch the spectacle – the judges and magistrates trapezing blithely, the hoop-jumping politicians, the happy, red-nosed cops. Bahzad Hussain had the grace and good sense to come quietly to the station, and he was very confident, and wanted only a cup of tea and a chance to make a few phone calls. He made jokes and laughed a lot. Yes, he had thrown his money and watched the spectacle. All of this police jhanjhat was only a slight waste of time, nothing more. Paisa phek, tamasha dekh .
    Kamble now had a family standing in front of him, a mother and a father and a son in blue-uniform short pants. The father was a tailor who had come back home from the shop early in the afternoon, to get some suiting material he had forgotten. On the way he had taken a short-cut and seen his son, who was supposed to be in school, playing marbles against the factory wall with some faltu street kids. The mother was doing the talking now. ‘Saab, I beat him, his father shouts at him, nothing helps. The teachers have given up. He shouts back at us, my son. He thinks he’s too smart. He thinks he doesn’t need school. I’m tired of it, saab. You take him. You put him in jail.’ She made the motion of emptying her hands, and dabbed at her eyes with the end of her blue pallu. Looking at her hands and finely muscled forearms, Sartaj was certain that she worked as a bai, that she washed dishes and clothes for the wives of executives in the Shiva Housing Colony. The son had his head down, and was scraping the side of one shoe against the other.
    Sartaj crooked a finger. ‘Come here.’ The boy shuffled sideways. ‘What’s your name?’
    â€˜Sailesh.’ He was about thirteen, quite wise, with a stylish floppy hairdo and flashing black eyes.
    â€˜Hello, Sailesh.’
    â€˜Hello.’
    Sartaj smashed a hand down on to the table. It was very loud, and Sailesh started and backed away. Sartaj grabbed him by the collar and twisted him around the