by Aabid Surti
Closing the progress report and putting it back on the stack of textbooks, he muttered, as if talking to self, “Hmm…he is excellent in studies but...”
“But what, Sir?” Iqbal could not help but ask.
Suddenly, he raised his voice, “Dikra, my hair hasn’t grayed in the sun, understand? Your cunning won't work here; if you try to act smart, I’ll skin you alive.” Saying, he thumped his hand with force on the table. The paperweight, lying nearby, jumped up and fell down.
Iqbal was in tears. Sobbing, he indirectly admitted his crime, “Sir, I’ve lost my father. The entire responsibility of looking after my home, my two younger brothers and the school fees rests on me.”
“Does that mean you stock truck loads of contraband goods?”
“What else could I do?”
“Hmm...” Bhesadia thought for a while and then asked, “Have you ever been to Yellow Gate?”
Several docks like the Ghadiyal Godi and Bhaucha Dhakka fell under the jurisdiction of the Yellow Gate police station. Iqbal had started smuggling with a boy named Ali from here. (Haji Mastan and the don of Matunga-Sion-Koliwada, Varadarajan Mudaliyar had also risen from here.)
In reply to Bhesadia's question, Iqbal lied, “No, Sir.”
“All the passenger boats from Goa dock there.”
“So I’ve heard.”
He also knew that the boats carried, besides passengers, contraband goods.
“Buy a couple of sacks from there to meet your family's needs.” Coming to the point, Bhesadia lambasted, “You don't have to unload an entire truck, do you understand?”
“Yes Sir. But...There is a police outpost there.”
Iqbal was referring to the Yellow Gate police station. Smuggling of goods from the dock was not without risk if one did not get the cooperation of the police.
“Refer my name to Mr. Dabholkar.” Bhesadia offered a solution, “He is the sub-inspector there.”
“May I now take your leave, Sir?”
Bhesadia wrote down his complete address and the request phone number of his neighbour and bade him farewell with a smile on his face.
On his return home, the first thing that Iqbal did was to send all the sacks kept in the room to Jasbir Singh's customers, refit the dismantled wooden bed and put it at its proper place. Now there was no need to take the risk and involve the whole family. He would be able to earn enough to meet basic necessities under the guidance of Bhesadia.
I, too, was to get enough to meet my needs under the guidance of Dr. Chinwala. In my spare time, I began to draw cartoons. I did not have anything to guide me, except for a torn Disney comic. I used to go to Dr. Chinwala's house once a week with the cartoons by me. He and painter Yusuf Dhala used to keenly study my work, discuss my style and encourage me.
Observing my enthusiasm for art, Yusuf Dhala gave me a file of “Kumar”, a Gujarati art and literature magazine. In a month, I had a stock of ten copies of every drawing of the entire file. I had now gone beyond copying and started drawing original sketches and cartoons.
Dr. Chinwala was quite impressed with my new works and commented, “Aabid! It’s difficult to sell line-drawings; but easy to sell cartoons.” Out of a dozen cartoons, he selected two. I expressed my doubts, “Who will buy them?”
“Any editor will accept them gladly.”
He also gave me the addresses of two publishing houses: The Times of India, daily and a Gujarati weekly called Chitralekha. I neither had the guts to enter a newspaper office nor the confidence to stand before an editor. I forgot the discussion I had with Dr. Chinwala.
I had joined the Boy Scouts that year. Every year, the Scouts in Bombay celebrated “Day of Real Earning.” On that day, we would put on our Scout uniforms and go out into the city to earn through manual labour. One boy would take with him boot-polish and a brush, and sit on a street-side to shine shoes, while another would wash cars. Another boy would sell sandwiches, while someone else would sell flowers made from paper.
I thought this was a godsent opportunity. I won’t get a better chance to sell my cartoons. If I don't muster enough courage today and present myself before an editor, I will never be able to get rid of my shyness and fear.
I picked up the two cartoons selected by Dr. Chinwala, neatly pasted them on grey poster paper, put on my scout uniform and left home. I knew the shortest route from my home in Dongri to the office of the Chitralekha weekly situated near the Fort Market. I must have taken around twenty minutes to reach there. I was standing in front of the office. My feet felt like dead wood. The enthusiasm, with which I had come so far, had evaporated. Moreover, I had started sweating profusely.
Before I could backtrack, a peon emerged from the door. “Whom do you want to see?”
“Me?” I stuttered in fear. “I’ve come to meet the editor. I know he hasn’t come.”
“Of course, he has.”
Then pointing towards the staircase he said, “Go upstairs.”
I entered the office like a thief breaking into a house.
I quietly climbed the stairs and reached the mezzanine floor, when my eyes fell on a young man (Harkishan Mehta) sitting on a rickety wooden chair opposite a wooden table. His head bent, he was busy writing an article. I guessed he was the editor.
I stood quietly.
After a while, he turned the page and looked up at me. I tried extending towards him the file in which I had brought my cartoons when he pointed a finger towards a nearby cabin. Before I could process anything, his pen got busy on the paper. There was now no escape.
As I slowly pushed the door and entered the cabin, the founder editor of Chitralekha, Mr. Vaju Kotak turned his head and looked at me. His face betrayed a feeling of surprise when he saw a student in scout uniform standing before him.
He might have thought that I had come to collect a donation. However, there was neither a box nor a receipt book in my hands. Instead, there was a file. After looking at me for a few moments, he signaled to me to take a seat.
I was afraid I might stammer if I tried to speak. Without uttering a word, I simply took out one cartoon from the file and kept it on the table. Now, he could make out that I was an upcoming artist. He picked up the cartoon, leaned back and looked at it intently. I sat quietly like a boy waiting for his examination result. The cartoon that Mr. Vaju Kotak was looking at was a strip comprising three frames. In the first frame was a policeman patrolling a street and the words ‘Help! Help! Murder! Murder!’ were coming out of a nearby building.
The second frame showed the policeman hurriedly climbing the stairs. In the last frame, he is shown staring in bewilderment at a woman listening to a radio play from which those words were coming out.
It takes about five seconds to take in the content of a cartoon strip comprising three frames. Nevertheless, to me they appeared like ages. My breathing stopped and I imagined that the editor was going to remark that my work was kindergarten stuff. A greenhorn like me should not be wasting the precious time of such a great person.
Suddenly he burst out laughing and my eyes bulged out.
“Is that all? Have you brought just one cartoon?” he asked, keeping the cartoon strip with him. I shook my head in the affirmative and got up. Before he could say anything more, I had left the place.
I had hit the bull's eye in my first attempt. My whole body trembled with excitement. My self-confidence got a tremendous boost. My chest swelled with pride. It did not take me long to reach The Times of India office from Fort Market.
In fact, I was carrying two cartoons and had decided to offer one to the Times. This was a single frame pocket cartoon without words. In it, a pickpocket at a bus stand diverts the attention of a passenger by pointing at a signboard, which says, BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS and with the other hand, he picks his pocket.
(After publication, this cartoon became so popular that several cartoonists exploited the idea in their own style.)
On entering the premises of The Times of India, I was walking with the swagger of Napoleon Bo
naparte after he had conquered several countries. I had won half the world after Chitralekha accepted my first cartoon; when The Times of India accepted the second one, the other half too was conquered.
This was a memorable day for me. I felt tears of joy welling up in my eyes. I was living the greatest moment of my life, the moment of glory. It was my first step into journalism. In a few months, I was to race ahead in this field. I was to go miles in the meadows of art and literature.
Intoxicated by success, instead of going home, I climbed the stairs of Dr. Chinwala's building. I proudly gave him the good news. His wife, Rehmat offered me a brimming bowl of fruit laced with cream. I gratefully accepted the bowl. Dr. Chinwala remarked, “We knew that you would be getting some good news today.”
Before I could start eating the fruity cream, Yusuf Dhala made me get up and joyfully hugged me. Urdu writer Mushtaq Jalili patted me on the back. My success and joy were not just mine.
The same day, like Jawaharlal Nehru, Dr. Chinwala announced his first five-year plan. According to it, painter Yusuf Dhala was to hold two exhibitions of his paintings. Mushtaq Jalili was to sell at least one story to a filmmaker and I was to get admission into the JJ School of Arts to complete a five-year course.
Sometimes, a thought flashes through my mind—What would have happened if Sufi had had such an environment, if such great men had entered his life? Would he have followed the footprints of these elders? Would there have been a change in the course of his life?
I recollect an article I had read in a magazine in which scientists had proven that if a child is taken from a poor family living in a slum and transported to a cultured family, raised in a healthy environment and given the necessary opportunity, then the child will grow up into an adult fit to compete in any field.
Sufi says all this is a game of destiny. If his stars were bright, his grandfather would not have been a gambler (The grandfather speculated in cotton) and his father would not have been a smuggler. He would not have been born in Munda Galli.
Sufi's joy and sorrow is his own. He does not seek the company of beautiful women when happy and does not seek liquor when depressed. When he rolls in millions, the expression on his face does not change. When he falls into bad days, it does not affect him either. He lives in his own world and knows how to live contentedly.
He has learnt to live from experience. These experiences span the entire course of his life – from childhood to adulthood, from the pits to the peaks, the highs and the lows, the right path, the murky path of crime and a godly way of life.
Inspector Bhesadia, instead of scaring him away from the road to crime, had made the same path easier for him. Now Iqbal (child Sufi) did not have any fears. Nobody could harm him. Bhesadia had given instructions to sub-inspector Dabholkar of the Yellow Gate police station on phone.
“How did you know that?” I asked Sufi.
“I’d met Mr Dabholkar before embarking upon the new venture. He not just surprised me by calling me by my name but also offered me a seat.”
“Still, I’m unable to grasp one point,” I questioned him once again. “Why should inspector Bhesadia act like your shield? Why should he turn a Cub Scout of crime into a commander?”
“So that he can make use of me to his advantage in the future.”
“How?”
He laughed, asking me a counter question, “You want to know everything in one sitting?”
I kept quiet.
He continued his narrative.
When Iqbal was studying in the eleventh standard, passenger boats used to ferry between Bombay and Goa. These boats were quite useful for those who did not want to travel by train. Comparatively, the journey also cost much less. (The Konkan Sevak was one such boat.)
These boats used to come twice a week and anchor at the Ghadiyal Godi. Besides passengers, these boats also carried liquor, especially Fenny, made from coconut and cashew-nut in Goa. This had become a cottage industry. Besides fenny, the brandy, whiskey and rum made by the then-famous Kodak Company were also much in demand in Bombay.
As advised by Bhesadia, Iqbal used to buy just two or three sacks. Every sack contained two dozen bottles of cashew fenny and three dozen bottles of liquor made by the Kodak Company.
Each bottle of fenny used to cost Iqbal eleven rupees and its selling price was fourteen. Thus, he made three rupees per bottle of fenny. On the liquor made by the Kodak Company, he made five rupees. On three sacks (two of fenny and one of Kodak liquor), he used to earn about three hundred rupees. Thus, he made a neat profit, after deducting the cost, of around six hundred rupees a week.
Iqbal was happy, though there was a slight hitch – on the days the boat anchored, he could not attend school. He had to wait at the dock from morning. He had to lift the stock, put it in a taxi and supply the bottles to different joints. Sometimes, he had to spend the entire day doing that. However, he was not worried about that. The next day, he would borrow the notes from one of his classmates and copy the lessons that he had missed.
This routine continued for some months and his relatives came to know about his adventure. They were shocked. Could it be true? Son of Hussain Ali into the liquor racket? At such a young age?
The next day Iqbal went for the Friday prayers. The elders, who used to smile at him, turned away their faces, as if he was an alien, while those who glanced at him had no feeling of affection on their face. Was he being ostracized?
After the prayers got over, the elders surrounded him in the courtyard of the mosque. Some devotees, instead of heading home, stayed back to watch the drama. One of the elders started reprimanding him in everyone's presence. “Aren’t you ashamed? Your booze business is a blot on the name of our clan.”
Iqbal listened silently. It was a hot humid day in late May, he could feel the drops of sweat already forming on his back and under the chin. “We are shattered…” another elder proclaimed. “People are spitting on our face.”
A third one threatened, “If you dare go to the docks tomorrow I’ll come to your house and thrash you up in front of your mom.”
“I won’t go,” Iqbal declared sincerely. “But how do we survive?”
“Beg!” The first elder growled.
The second one wisely asked him, “Is crime the only solution to poverty? There are hundreds of poor in our community. Do all of them survive on bootlegging?”
This homily had the desired effect. Once again Iqbal left the path of the devil and started following the path that God ordained. The struggle began afresh. It was his final year of high school. He wanted to secure a first class and join college. He had to fulfill his father's last wish.
I did not have to pass the matriculation examinations. For me, the certificate was not important. Secondly, in those days a certificate was not needed to join the JJ School of Arts. I discussed the matter with Dr. Chinwala. (He had unknowingly occupied the place of my father.) He told me assertively that it would not be proper to join the Art School leaving my studies mid-way. “How many months left for the final examinations?” he reminded me, “only five.”
Iqbal was preparing for the examinations in right earnest.
I was preparing for exams with zero interest and under compulsion. I felt like a coolie who carries the load of the mountaineers and climbs towards the peak. Moreover, there was no facility at home to study. Neither in the day nor in the night. I started studying under the dim light of our chawl, in the passage every night.
My family's economic condition had improved slightly. Because of his honesty, my uncle Mohammed Hussain had received a salary raise in the docks. However, in order to make both ends meet, my mother still washed dishes as a domestic hand. Moreover, I used to meet my expenses by drawing cartoons. The same year, Sri Shani, the editor of the weekly Chet Machandar, started my cartoon strip titled Batukbhai. (Today, the same strip is known among the Hindi readers of Dharmayug as Dabbuji.)
Iqbal’s condition was deteriorating day by day. The funds collected through illicit trade were
dwindling. Just when his matriculation examinations were to begin, the condition of his family was like that of a beggar's. His class teacher issued a warning, “Those who don't pay the examination fees by tomorrow won’t be allowed to appear for the tests.”
The examination fee was just 16 rupees. The following day was the last day for submitting the form. Iqbal had 12 rupees on him. What was he to do for the remaining amount? He was thinking fast. He was prepared to do anything to meet this shortfall. It was not in his ilk to spread his hand before anyone.
He came to Pala Galli after school. There was a flower shop opposite the Khoja Masjid. He saw a boy placing an order for a bouquet . The florist did some calculations, asked for some money as advance and returned a five rupee note to the boy..
The boy put the receipt and the note in his pocket and turned to leave. After a few steps, Iqbal accosted him, slapped him hard and pulled out the five rupee note from his pocket. The boy was stunned. Before he realized what had happened, Iqbal had disappeared into the maze of Munda Galli.
Chapter 7
The declaration of the matriculation examination results was more of a relief than anything else. I had scraped through in almost all my subjects. However, in drawing I had topped the class. Iqbal, on the other hand, had managed to score in practically every subject.