I was going to Bombay.â
The speaker was silent. Sartaj stood up, turned and looked up and down the street. âEh, Gaitonde?â he said.
A moment passed, and then the answer came: âYes, Sartaj?â
âThe bulldozerâs here.â
Indeed it was there, a black leviathan that now appeared at the very end of the street with a throaty clanking that caused a crowd to appear instantly. The machine had a certain dignity, and the driver had a cap on his head, worn with the flair of a specialist.
âGet those people out of the road,â Sartaj said to Katekar. âAnd that thing up here. Pointed this way.â
âI can hear it now,â Gaitonde said. The video lens moved in its housing restlessly.
âYouâll see it soon,â Sartaj said. The policemen near the vans were checking their weapons. âListen, Gaitonde, this is all a farce that I donât like one bit. Weâve never met, but still weâve spent the afternoon talking. Letâs be gentlemen. Thereâs no need for this. Just come out and we can go back to the station.â
âI canât do that,â Gaitonde said.
âStop it,â Sartaj said. âStop acting the filmi villain, youâre better than that. This isnât some schoolboy game.â
âIt is a game, my friend,â Gaitonde said. âIt is only a game, it is leela.â
Sartaj turned away from the door. He wanted, with an excruciating desire, a cup of tea. âAll right. Whatâs your name?â he said to the driver of the bulldozer, who was leaning against a gargantuan track.
âBashir Ali.â
âYou know what to do?â
Bashir Ali twisted his blue cap in his hands.
âItâs my responsibility, Bashir Ali. Iâm giving you an order as a police inspector, so you donât have to worry about it. Letâs get that door down.â
Bashir Ali cleared his throat. âBut thatâs Gaitonde in there, Inspector sahib,â he said tentatively.
Sartaj took Bashir Ali by the elbow and walked him to the door.
âGaitonde?â
âYes, Sardar-ji?â
âThis is Bashir Ali, the driver of the bulldozer. Heâs afraid of helping us. Heâs frightened of you.â
âBashir Ali,â Gaitonde said. The voice was commanding, like an emperorâs, sure of its consonants and its generosity.
Bashir Ali was looking at the middle of the door. Sartaj pointed up at the video camera, and Ali blinked up at it. âYes, Gaitonde Bhai?â he said.
âDonât worry. I wonât forgive you ââ Bashir Ali blanched ââ because thereâs nothing to forgive. We are both trapped, you on that side of the door and me on this. Do what they tell you to do, get it over with and go home to your children. Nothing will happen to you. Not now and not later. I give you my word.â There was a pause. âThe word of Ganesh Gaitonde.â
By the time Bashir Ali had climbed up to his seat on top of the bulldozer he had understood, it seemed, his starring role in the situation. He put his cap on his head with a twirl and pointed it backward. The engine grunted and then settled into a steady roar. Sartaj leaned close to the speaker. The left side of his head, from the nape of the neck to the temples, was caught in a sweeping pulse of heat and pain.
âGaitonde?â
âSpeak, Sardar-ji, Iâm listening.â
âJust open this door.â
âYou want me to just open this door? I know, Sardar-ji, I know.â
âKnow what?â
âI know what you want. You want me to just open this door. Then you want to arrest me and take me to the station. You want to be a hero in the newspapers. You want a promotion. Two promotions. Deep down you want even more. You want to be rich. You want to be an all-India hero. You want the President to give you a medal on Republic Day. You want the medal in full colour on television. You want to be