by Aabid Surti
The liquor brewed in Vardabhai's breweries was supplied all over Bombay. This was the country liquor meant for the working class. However, the executives and the white-collared bureaucrats wanted 'scotch'. The traffic between Goa and Bombay increased.
There was a heavy demand in Bombay for Goa's fenny, scotch, rum and brandy. Jasbir Singh's lorries used to ply between Goa and Bombay. His business of importing liquor illegally was running in full swing.
These trucks coming from Goa carried a large number of sacks, of which a few stacked on the top contained coconuts. The remaining sacks contained liquor bottles. After midnight, one of the trucks would stop outside Munda Galli at Palkhi Mohalla.
This road and the other road known as Pala Galli start from Dongri Char Nal and run parallel towards Khadak. Munda Galli joins both these roads and lies between them, zigzagging like an earthworm. There are three entry points: one from Pala Galli, the other two from Palkhi Mohalla. (It was in Munda Galli that one of the three liquor dens of Aziz Dilip was situated.)
“You said the truck used to park at the corner of Munda Galli. Then how were the sacks unloaded and carried into the building?” I asked him.
Sufi replied with a smile, “I was no longer alone; by now I too had my own gang. There were about a dozen daring Malbari lads working under me. They were prepared to risk their necks at the flick of my fingers. I used to instruct them in the evening. They would stand near the lane after midnight.”
After the truck arrived, these lads would carry a sack each and enter the lane. They would pass the narrow lane quickly and enter the Abbasi Manzil, climb the stairs and dump the sacks in Iqbal’s room. Iqbal would then keep these sacks in order, lay a sheet over them and sleep on top.
This continued without a hitch for some days. Iqbal repaid all his debts. The situation at home improved. The days of misery were gone. Now, Iqbal did not have to carry urns of water. He did not have to sell chikki, candy and berries on the roadside at Pala Galli. His studies too continued without hindrance.
He was dreaming of passing the tenth grade examination in the first class this year when the officer of the crime branch, Mr. Bhesadia, got wind of his activities. This cop was to play an important role in Iqbal’s life and convert a juvenile delinquent into a hardened criminal.
I was almost the same age when Dr. R J Chinwala entered my life. This psychiatrist-cum-author-cum-photographer was going to show me the path to progress.
Chapter 4
My father Ghulam Hussain's death had shaken me up badly. I was cold to my bones and too stunned to cry. I can't explain what could have been the reason because, in my childhood, I had received affection from my mother and rebuffs from my father.
Memories of yesteryears swim before my eyes even today. I used to run towards my father's cot to sit on his lap, but he would push me away. He would then caution my mother: “How many times have I told you not to allow the children to come near me!”
My mother would spread her wings over me and glare at my father. She did not have the courage to utter a single word in front of him. At times, when it became unbearable, she would summon the little courage she had and say: “The world will not come to an end if you hug the children for a few minutes.” He could not tolerate such a comment and would start screaming, creating a ruckus. Then he would collapse. By this time he had turned epileptic too.
This does not mean that our father did not love us. In reality, he too wanted to make both his sons sit on his lap, in the cradle of his arms, cuddle us, listen to our babble and tell us fairy tales. It was his phobia that prevented him.
He had created an imaginary circle around his cot. It was his belief that if we children entered that circle, all the evil spirits residing in his body would enter our tender souls.
I was too small to understand all this. As a result, I did not develop any affection for my father. On the contrary, a feeling of hatred had surfaced in some corner of my heart. But then why did his death unnerve me? Why was it that the very urchins I should have been keeping away from, became my friends? What triggered my defiance against society?
School bag duly strapped on my back, I would leave home supposedly for school, but really just to loaf around with my new friends. Sometimes, we would go on a joy ride in suburban trains throughout the day and at other times, we would visit the docks. We would run like beggars after the trains carrying soldiers returning from World War II. (These trains were connected to the docks and moved slowly.)
From the train windows, the white soldiers would throw a piece of chocolate, a few coins or a packet of cigarettes. Then the smoke-belching train would move away far into the distance. My ragged friends and I would sit on the tracks, divide the gifts amongst ourselves, luxuriously smoke the imported cigarettes and eat a piece of chocolate to hide the smell.
After a month, my mother came to know about my adventures. First she thrashed me, and then started crying. “I toil day and night so that you can pursue your studies,” she reminded me between sobs. “I wash dishes and clothes of the entire neighbourhood and grind chilies. My heart grieves when I see you loafing in the town like a stray dog.”
My heart melted. I started attending school regularly from the next day. That day, I also had a time-worn Disney comic along with my textbooks. A white soldier had thrown it to me from the running train and I had caught it.
Those days, comic books did not flood the Indian market the way they do today. Like a rare bird, a foreign comic would make its appearance once a while. It was the first time I had seen a comic book. And a tattered one at that.
This major event in my childhood –one that prompted me to change the course of my life--had arrived most unexpectedly. During the snack-break, I was trying to copy Mickey Mouse in different poses from the comic book. A classmate sitting beside me told me that a 'big' artist resided near his house and that he made large paintings.
“How big?” I asked.
He spread his hands wide and said, “Bigger than this.”
The same evening, instead of going home, I accompanied my friend, whose next door neighbour was Dr. R J Chinwala. His house was a haven for creative people. Photographers, painters and men of letters gathered there almost daily to discuss various topics on art and literature. Once a month, a budding poet would present his poems before the august gathering.
Not only that, he had provided accommodation in his three bedroom hall apartment to an Urdu writer, who had come from Hyderabad to try his luck in the film industry, and to a painter from Gujarat who was in search of a place to start his work. The Urdu writer was Mushtaq Jalili (the writer of films like Ek Phool Do Maali and Avtaar) and the painter was Yusuf Dhala.
I saw that Yusuf Dhala had started a large canvas in the miniature style. I stood there transfixed. I did not even realize when the student, who had accompanied me, left the place. When I came back to my senses, Dr. Chinwala was standing besides me. He asked gently, “Did you like the picture?”
“Yes,” I replied and asked him, “Can I come to see the painting tomorrow also?”
“Aabid!” He addressed me by my name. Perhaps my student friend had given my introduction before his departure. “You can come every day.”
Thus began my daily visits to this house. I became a member of the large family of Dr. Chinwala. Yusuf Dhala was to become my guru in the field of art, while from Mushtaq Jalili I was to learn the art and craft of story writing. Dr. Chinwala too was to play an important role in shaping my life. My wayward life was to take a new direction.
Inspector Bhesadia was also to chart out a new course for Iqbal; but there was a difference between the two courses. One was positive, while the other was negative. One was leading to progress, while the other -- to ruin
Once again the same question raises its head…Who decides these paths? Why did I come across the worldly-wise Dr. Chinwala, and Iqbal chance upon corrupt cop Bhesadia? Was it a game of destiny? Or a mere coincidence?
If we look at the positive side of Sufi, he
resembles a holy man. He offers namaaz five times a day. He fasts for thirty days during the month of Ramadan. The only difference between Sufi and a common Muslim is that whatever Sufi does, he does with understanding, and not because a priest ordains it.
One day, his wife Masooma requested, “Iqbal, the graveyard of our community is in a dilapidated condition; its boundary walls have collapsed, the pathways inside are rough and wild shrubs have grown where there were flower beds. If you get it repaired by spending just a few thousand rupees, the entire community will bless you.”
“I’m ready,” replied Sufi. “I’m willing to spend not just a few thousand but one hundred thousand rupees. But, the graveyard should be Islamic.”
Masooma could not understand what he meant and asked, “Where does Islam figure in burying the dead?”
Sufi explained. “Islam does not permit construction of tombs made of concrete. So I’ll first use a bulldozer to flatten all those graves constructed of marble. I’ll remove the disparity between a rich grave and a poor grave. Go and obtain permission from the pesh imam.”
Masooma was silent.
“Aabidbhai,” Sufi continued, “The cemetery isn’t meant for erecting mausoleums. It’s meant to remind humanity that here lie mighty kings and the conquerors of the world. No one is immortal. In the end, everyone has to say goodbye to the world. Therefore, be warned and tread on the path of righteousness.”
If you see his negative side, the biggest mafia don of the country would appear a dwarf before his sharp brain. He has done all that a don does. However, he has done it with finesse, with cunning. He understands the language of the knife but does not use it. If a mission can be accomplished through persuasion, he does not use the gun. He believes it is safer to grease the palms of a police officer than to challenge him. He has learnt from years of experience.
Despite the sophistication, this aspect of his personality is undesirable. He accepts it as his destiny. He does not want to do such work that the God forbids. He is compelled by circumstances to do it. “Because, it’s written.” Was he rationalizing his unholy acts?
My own belief is different. Whether life deals you a decent hand or not, be responsible for all your deeds.
“If that were the case, astrology would prove totally wrong,” he argues curtly.
This reminds me of a significant event supposed to have occurred in the court of Aurangzeb. This Moghul emperor had total faith in Allah and the Quran, so he did not believe in astrologers or their shastras. He believed that only Allah knows the future. (Quran also says the same.) No one except Allah can claim to know the unknown. One day, his Prime Minister came to the court with a scholarly Pandit. Aurangzeb asked him just two questions – The first was “How long will I live?”
The Pandit made some calculations and gave a figure. Now Aurangzeb asked him the second “How long will you live?”
The Pandit knew the answer and replied confidently, “Your Highness, at present, I’m sixty years old and fated to live up to a ripe old age of ninety-five.”
The same moment, Aurangzeb pulled out the sword and severed his head.
To get our conversation back on track, I asked Sufi, “Who informed inspector Bhesadia of your activities?”
He thought for a while and continued narrating his story. In those years, one of Iqbal’s relatives, ‘Jafar Tight’ was a feared goon of the Dongri area. Attacking him meant challenging Abdul Rehman Kafaria whose patronage he enjoyed. Old tenants shudder at the mention of this gangster’s name even today.
The elderly people recall that Abdul Rehman Kafaria’s hand was made of steel. Just one punch was enough to split the enemy’s head in two, so powerful was his blow.
This was when Aziz Dilip was growing up from a little puppy into a bloodhound. Jafar Tight had become cautious. A war had begun between the two. Aziz Dilip had moved into the same building in which Jafar Tight lived.
This structure, 'Velsi Lalji Building', is as deceptive as Munda Galli. While Munda Galli has three entrances, this building has two – one from Pala Galli on which Khoja Masjid is located and the other from Bhimpura that runs parallel. The building is a boon for crooks.
(Many taxi drivers have been duped here in broad daylight. The trick to cheat them is very simple — Sorry, I don’t have enough money to pay the fare. I’ll have to go up to get it. While the taxi driver waits innocently, the passenger goes in through one entrance and walks away like a gentleman from the other one.)
Aziz Dilip had taken up a house in this centrally located building. He wanted to establish himself in this locality. He planned to lay the foundation of his network here. At the same time, he had to survive. He was not yet powerful enough to challenge Jafar Tight.
Sometimes he would return home drunk hollering aloud and Jafar Tight would bash him up on the staircase. “Next time, if you create a row at night, I’ll break your legs and stuff them up your behind.” Aziz would silently suffer the physical and verbal assault.
It continued for a few years until Abdul Rehman Kafaria died one day. Now Aziz Dilip was emboldened. By this time, he had entrenched himself and laid a solid foundation too. He had become the owner of three liquor joints.
One of his joints was in Munda Galli, the other was in the playground behind the New Model High School in Bhimpura and the third was in Chindhi Galli at Dongri market. He had over twenty boys (around 16 years of age) working under him.
Jafar Tight realized that his days were numbered. It was not safe for him to cross the path of Aziz Dilip, let alone catch him by the collar and beat him up. So, he started looking for his enemy’s weak spots to mount an attack.
He learnt that trucks carrying liquor bottles arrive after midnight and the stock is unloaded in Munda Galli. He assumed that the consignment must belong to Aziz Dilip. The same day, he wrote a letter and sent it directly to the home department. The home department forwarded it to the headquarters of the crime branch at Boribunder and it landed on the table of inspector Bhesadia. He read the complaint and deputed three of his chosen men to keep vigil at all the three entry points of Munda Galli.
It was around 10 in the night. Iqbal was mugging history lessons, preparing for the tenth standard examinations. The examinations were to start from the next day. Both his younger brothers had had their dinner and gone off to sleep. Iqbal’s mother was still awake, reading her prayer-book. She too went off to sleep after about an hour.
Iqbal looked up at the clock. It was 11.15 in the night. He kept one eye on his books and the other on the clock. The truck carrying the consignment was to arrive after midnight. He had already briefed his boys in the evening. They were to be at the corner of Munda Galli on the dot.
It was midnight. A steady flow of customers had started coming to Aziz Dilip's Munda Galli joint. The loud echoes of belly laughter emerging from the den in the dead of the night died away by the time they reached Iqbal’s room. The plainclothesmen of the crime branch had positioned themselves at all the three entry points. They were invisible except for their cat-like eyes.
On hearing the horn of the truck at a distance, Iqbal looked at the clock for the last time. It was two in the morning. He closed his history book, put it in the bag, and got up. He did not need to go downstairs. His boys were properly trained. (Sufi calls these boys 'tapori'.)
The truck that had entered Palkhi Mohalla stopped near the entrance of Munda Galli. The plainclothes cops became alert. They saw that sacks were being unloaded swiftly. Young boys in the age group of 15-16, slim but strongly built, were carrying a sack each and disappearing in the darkness of Munda Galli. They returned, lifted the sack and again ran into the lane one after the other.
It was difficult for the cops to know where exactly the stock was being taken to inside the lane. It was risky to enter the lane without being spotted. If they were caught, it might even cost them their lives.
If Velsi Lalji Building was a boon for the thugs, Munda Galli was a haven for the killers. If a killer vanished in the maze of these l
anes after committing a murder, it would be impossible for the police to trace him.
The next day, all the three cops presented themselves before Bhesadia in his cabin. “Had the truck come?” he shot the first question.
All the three shook their heads in affirmative.
“How many sacks were unloaded?”
“More than fifty,” one of them replied.
“Whose consignment was it?”
“Aziz Dilip's.”
“That's not possible.” He said surveying the faces of all the three men.
“Sir, that’s what is stated in the complaint.”
“So, you believed it to be true?” Bhesadia thundered at the ludicrous argument.
“But Sir, we saw the sacks being taken to Aziz Dilip's joint.”
He smiled confidentially. “My dear...you saw the sacks going towards the den, not into it. Right?” he said softening his tone.
Another cop, accepting the mistake, asked, “how come you’re so sure, Sir?”