by Aabid Surti
(At the same time, I was to get typhoid.)
It is a pleasure to leave the confines of school and join college but not every student has this privilege. There are several reasons for that. But the main one is poverty.
Most of the students of Habib High School in those days belonged to the lower middle class and below, or were, in other words, poor. Our head-master had devoted his entire life in motivating these students. He had fought on two fronts – education and hunger; but he could not combat effectively poverty among the Muslims.
A look at the history of Habib High School would reveal that its former students are today top engineers and smugglers; top doctors, lawyers and artists as well as top gangsters; top industrialists as well as proficient criminals.
One cannot come across such a stark contrast among the former students of any other school. Teachers like the late Sheikh Hasan are also one in a million. (Iqbal was in his last batch of students.)
Stepping into college is like taking a jump from adolescence into adulthood. On joining the JJ School of Arts, I felt as if my childhood had been left far behind; and there lay before me the golden freeway to youth bedecked with flowers. A new world, new faces and new acquaintances awaited me.
I was neither a good-looking chocolate hero, nor a robust Mr. Universe. Like Iqbal, I looked like an ordinary student. Short crew-cut hair, pointed nose, a thick-framed pair of glasses in front of the eyes, high cheekbones, long neck and a slim body. Yet, my popularity spread. More than boys, girls were fascinated by me. Reason?
In my very first year in JJ, I had made my mark in studies and sports. I was to win a cup every year in table tennis. I was to get a scholarship for securing a first class in my studies every year. I was to receive freeships for all five years of study. Moreover, I was to grab a prize for the best actor in the inter-college Hindi drama competition.
In the same year, an Iranian girl decided to organise a three-day excursion over four consecutive holidays. She had a chikoo orchard with a farmhouse in Dahanu. She asked me what I thought of the idea. What objection could I have?
Immediately, we sat together and prepared a list of about a dozen students. (Six boys and six girls.) We decided to leave Bombay on Thursday. We were to spend Friday and Saturday there and return on Sunday.
Before Thursday arrived, a shooting pain started in my forehead. I could not imagine the cause of the sudden attack. I swallowed two pills. The ache stopped.
I was preparing my bag on the day of the excursion when my head started throbbing again. For some moments, I just stood in confusion. Should I go for the trip or not? It was my first year in JJ and my first trip. Because of the excitement of the adventure, I did not bother about the headache, took two more painkillers and left home.
My friends were waiting for me at Dadar station. One friend had put on a straw hat. The girls were in jump suits, jeans and skirts and blouses. I had worn a pink handloom shirt and a dark pant. The atmosphere was full of joy and smiles; my headache too had disappeared thanks to the pills.
We dashed for the compartment as soon as the train arrived on the platform. The quiet compartment turned cacophonous. We reached Dahanu in two hours, singing and dancing throughout the journey.
The orchard was not very far from the station. The weather was congenial. The sky was cloudy. The road was wet in some patches. Perhaps it had rained the previous night. When we reached the farmhouse after strolling under the open sky, it was already ten in the morning. The sea was roaring somewhere a mile away.
We opened the windows and the fragrance of trees filled the rooms. They were century-old mango trees, the rustle was the same sound the British, who left behind this estate, used to hear in silence.
I had not come here just for fun. I had brought with me a sketchbook and paints. I had planned to spend half the time drawing sketches of Dahanu, and the rest with my friends.
But I could neither frolic with friends, nor sketch. No sooner did we settle down in the bungalow, the headache started again. This time, it was accompanied by a fever. Outside in the open grounds, friends were preparing for a game of musical-chairs, chattering loudly, and here I was all alone sitting beside a wide window watching them.
Suddenly the Iranian girl exclaimed, “Where is Aabid?”
I moved away from the window. I did not want to be a spoilsport and upset them by disclosing my sickness. The Iranian girl came into my room looking for me. By this time, I was running high temperature. It was no ordinary fever – it was typhoid.
I spent the days of our outing to Dahanu taking pills and shots from a local doctor and returned to Bombay. I consulted my family doctor Dr. Dastoor who instructed me to get admitted into a hospital.
I spent a month and ten days in Habib Hospital. I had become so weak that I did not even have the strength to swipe at the flies squatting on my face.
Iqbal suffered from pneumonia for about ten days and recovered dramatically. Nevertheless, his chest was not as strong as before. His eyes had sunk deep. A day's work as a helper had proved very expensive for him.
The only consolation was that Rashid Parkar was so impressed by his dedication and honesty that he gave him three hundred rupees as bonus over and above the two hundred rupees he had promised. All that money was wiped clean in meeting the household expenditure and the medical bills.
After recovering from his illness, he first met Rashid. Rashid was standing near the Dongri taxi stand.
“Can I get some work?” Iqbal asked.
“What had I told you?” Rashid commented, recalling that day’s incident. “If you had taken a peg or two, you wouldn’t have been in such a sorry state.”
“But...”
“Then you started preaching- liquor is taboo in Islam. Now, just tell me if liquor is fucking taboo, why did God make it?”
Iqbal was not interested in a debate at this moment. He pleaded again, “Rashid, I’ve come for work.”
“Listen, buddy.” This time he looked at Iqbal's face steadily and said, “You won’t be able to work for a few more days. The fact is, you still need some rest. Secondly, the tapori, in whose place I’d engaged you for a day, has come back.”
Iqbal was disheartened. Steeped in disappointment, he went to Haji Ali and sat on the parapet by the seaside, his back to the mausoleum. The sun was about to set. His long shadow spread across the road. The vehicles, leaving the city and heading towards the suburbs, were trying to crush his shadow. And yet, he was on top.
The moment a car appeared, the shadow jumped over the moving vehicle and then again spread across the road as soon as it passed away. He was playing a different type of snakes and ladders, when his eyes caught the jeep of inspector Bhesadia speeding towards the city.
His eyes sparkled. He stood up and started running parallel to the jeep. The jeep was on the opposite side of the road and he was on the pavement on this side; in between were speeding vehicles.
Chapter 9
Iqbal ran for a few steps, came up to the petrol pump and stopped abruptly. Now he laughed at his own foolishness. It was not possible to race a jeep. Besides, what was the use of overtaking the jeep? What did he expect from inspector Bhesadia?
When he pondered over it quietly, he realized that on seeing the jeep he had seen a ray of hope. Perhaps, inspector Bhesadia would be able to show him some way out of his misery.
He watched with dismay at the jeep speeding away when suddenly, to his surprise, the jeep stopped near Cadbury House and made a U-turn. Now, the jeep was coming towards him. His hopes were kindled once more. Once again, his eyes gleamed. The jeep passed by him and stopped at the same petrol pump. Bhesadia got down and entered the manager’s cabin with its transparent glass panes.
Why didn’t he notice him? Bhesadia should have at least smiled at him. However, he had turned his face away as if Iqbal did not exist. From the pavement, Iqbal saw that there were two men inside the cabin. The young man sitting on the owner's chair was probably the manager. The other was a Punjabi. He
was sitting on the opposite chair. He looked shifty…a guy with ulterior motives-- for self-gain at the expense of others. Iqbal could not guess who he was.
Hesitantly, he came near the cabin and stood there with a blank face. Bhesadia was talking to the Punjabi. Iqbal presumed that the Punjabi must be Bhesadia's friend and had come to see him. Both were in a discussion about something. Iqbal could see everything but hear nothing.
After some time, Bhesadia's eyes fell on him. For a moment, he had some doubt about the identity of the youth. The next moment his face softened. He came out.
“Dikra!” He inspected Iqbal from top to bottom and expressing surprise added, “The last time I saw you, you were like a pony, but today? You look like a horse; not a racing stallion, but a buggy horse, down and out. Are you all right?”
Iqbal nodded.
“Then, straighten your back,” Bhesadia said authoritatively, slapping his back, “Lift your head high. Now tell me, how are you doing?”
“Bad.”
“Why? Did all the boats sink?”
Bhesadia was under the impression that he was still smuggling liquor from Ghadiyal Godi.
“No, Sir,” Iqbal replied.
“Then?”
“I need to earn some more, Sir.”
“Has the greed bug bitten you too?” Bhesadia joked and laughed like a squirrel. “Do you know that old saying? Greed destroys goodness first!”
“True, Sir.”
“Then?”
“I’m able to manage the household expenses, but not my college fees.”
Bhesadia stared at him for a few moments. He was pleasantly surprised that Iqbal had finished school and joined college.
“What percentage did you get in the matriculation examinations?”
“I got a First class, Sir,” he said with some pride.
“Well done.” Thinking for a while, Bhesadia asked him again, “Which college have you joined?”
“Bhavans.”
“What are your future plans?”
“I’ll try for medical college, become a doctor.”
“That’ll be quite expensive.”
“That’s why I’ve come to you.”
“Hmm...” He remained silent for some time and then inquired, “Do you know driving?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t mean the Victoria.”
“Yes Sir.”
“I’m talking about car, a motor car.” He clarified and repeated the question with some emphasis, “Do you know how to drive a car?”
“Of course, I know how to drive a car and also… how to knock off someone with a car.”
Bhesadia got the message Iqbal wanted to convey and smiled behind his moustache. “Be at home tomorrow, I’ll contact you,” he said.
Iqbal was about to open his mouth when he remembered that the first time he had gone to see Bhesadia at the crime branch headquarters, he had noted Iqbal's address and the request phone number too.
I stopped him from narrating his life story and interjected, “Sufi! When did you learn driving?”
“We had to take out the smuggled goods from Ghadiyal Godi in a taxi,” he said. “One cannot carry out the job if the taxi driver isn’t a colleague. Whenever we took out the contraband goods from the dock, I used to sit beside him and closely watch him drive. Gradually, I started driving the taxi under his guidance. Of course, I used to drive the car as a hobby then.”
The next day, Iqbal remained at home from morning till sunset, waiting for the call. It was a holiday- there was no work. He got bored sitting idle. He glanced at his watch for the last time. (He had checked the time several times since morning.)
It was five in the evening. He could not resist the temptation of going out for a stroll. He got up and was about to step out when he saw his neighbour approaching him. Stopping midway in the chawl passage, he informed Iqbal, “There is a phone call for you.”
He went to the neighbour's house.
“What are you doing, dikra?” Inspector Bhesadia’s voice was clear and loud.
“Nothing.”
“An idle mind is a devil’s workshop,” he said. “You should be studying.”
“College just opened, Sir. Lectures haven’t yet started.”
“You must top the class in college too.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Then, he came to the point. “Be at the petrol pump at 6 o’ clock.”
Instead of going out for a walk, Iqbal changed two buses (there was no direct bus from Dongri to Haji Ali) and reached the same petrol pump. Bhesadia was already in the cabin. He got up when he saw Iqbal.
“Sit here, dikra,” he said, indicating the chair he had been occupying. He went to the entrance of the cabin. Before leaving, he added, “I’ll phone you again.”
Iqbal saw him speeding away in his jeep for some distance and then turned his head. The manager sitting opposite was engrossed in the ledger, perhaps adjusting some invoices.
Iqbal turned his head again. He saw on his left the Punjabi guy in a shirt and pant. The same face, who was there yesterday too. Perhaps he was Bhesadia's man. But he did not look like a cop. Since he had not been introduced, Iqbal turned his eyes away. The Punjabi unconsciously slid his hands into his pant pockets and jingled keys and coins.
Outside the cabin, the work of filling petrol in customers' cars was proceeding as usual. Cars and taxis were arriving, stopping there for some minutes and leaving after their petrol tanks were filled. Iqbal watched all this through the transparent glass walls of the cabin. There was nothing else to do to pass the time.
Around 9 o’clock in the night, the Punjabi brought two large club sandwiches from somewhere. He gave one to Iqbal and ate the other .
“Can I get some water?” Iqbal asked after finishing his sandwich.
The Punjabi got up, went up to the water filter outside and brought a glass for Iqbal.
Iqbal drank the water and got up with the empty glass. The Punjabi too got up and took the glass from Iqbal. Iqbal sat down again. The Punjabi was not allowing Iqbal to move from his place. Had inspector Bhesadia instructed him not to allow him to move? He did not even know why Bhesadia had made him wait here.
He ran out of patience by ten o’clock. “How much more time will it take?” He asked the Punjabi, looking at him.
In reply, the Punjabi just shrugged his shoulders.
By eleven, he got up to leave. “I must go now,” he said addressing the Punjabi and added, “I think Mr. Bhesadia might have gotten busy somewhere.”
The Punjabi told him to sit down and commented dryly, “If that were the case, he would have informed us over the phone.”
“Are you sure?”
The Punjabi just nodded 'Yes'.
Now Iqbal looked at him pointedly and asked, “What's your name, Sir?”
“Bali.”
Iqbal did some quick thinking and concluded – Bali knows where Bhesadia is. That means, Bali must be from the underworld or an informer or both.
Exactly at 1.30 in the night, the phone started ringing. Iqbal immediately grabbed the receiver. Inspector Bhesadia's voice echoed in the dead of the night, “Are you awake?”
“I’m wide awake, Sir. Your man however, is fast asleep,” he said.
“Really?”
He removed the receiver from his ear and placed it near Bali's nose. He had fallen asleep on the chair. His head had rolled back and he was snoring loudly.
“Convinced?” Iqbal asked, putting back the receiver on his ear.
“Wake up that bastard and ask him to bring you.”
“Where to, Sir?”
“He knows where.”
When the line was disconnected, Iqbal replaced the receiver on the cradle and shook the man. The Punjabi got up with a start. Iqbal gave him Bhesadia’s message.
From Haji Ali, Bali took him to the Lotus Theatre at Worli in a taxi. (The old theatre no longer exists.) The roads were empty. The crowd from the last show had dispersed after midnight. The place was deserted. Ga
slight poles standing at a distance in a row were illuminating only a limited area. The rest of the area was dark.
Inspector Bhesadia's jeep was parked a short distance away from the theatre. He was leaning on a Fiat car parked nearby. When they approached him, he addressed Iqbal, “Do you like this car?”
Iqbal moved his hand over its body. It was covered with a thin sheet of dust. The colour beneath was navy blue. The car looked new. “It's nice,” he said and thought to himself – did he make me wait for hours just to appreciate this car? Or is it a stolen one?
“Get inside.”
He opened the door and as he entered, his eyes caught sight of two jackets kept on the seat. He pressed one jacket’s lining with his fingers and realised that there were gold biscuits inside it. He knew that generally, one jacket carries a hundred pieces.
Now he looked out of the car window. Bhesadia was suppressing a smile. Iqbal smiled back. “What do I do with the jackets?”
Bhesadia handed him a small chit. “There is a chemist's shop near the Pydhonie police station.” Iqbal was listening attentively. “Reach there by 11.30 tomorrow morning. A jeweler will be waiting for you there. Hand over both the jackets to him.”