by Aabid Surti
Iqbal's brain started buzzing. He did some computations. He had finally unraveled the mystery of his seven and a half-hour' wait at the petrol pump.
After making him wait at the petrol pump at 6.30 in the evening, Bhesadia must have gone on to raid some smugglers. He must have seized the consignment of jackets there. Then quietly, he must have removed these two jackets from the lot and noted the remaining in his official register.
“How do I find the jeweler?”
“He will find you.”
“How do I confirm that he is the right person?”
“He will offer you a one-rupee note.” Inspector Bhesadia said. “Check the number of that bank note. It will match the number on the chit I’ve given you.”
Iqbal took out the chit from his pocket and glanced at it. There was a long number written on it.
“Anything else?”
“This car...”
“Enjoy it for a few days. I’ll ask for it when I need it,” said Bhesadia, showing his magnanimity.
Iqbal started the car and sped away.
On reading the next day’s morning newspaper, he patted his own back. He had guessed accurately. Inspector Bhesadia's adventure was all there-- on the front page.
Bhesadia had intercepted a taxi near Juhu beach. (Bali was the informer from that area.) According to the newspaper report, thirteen jackets (meaning that there were fifteen) and other contraband goods were found in the taxi. These included Japanese wrist watches and transistor radios.
Iqbal put down the newspaper and looked at the clock. He had to deliver the two jackets at 11 o' clock. It was only seven o’clock in the morning. He had an omelette and bread for breakfast and while having a cup of tea he thought – he had lost fifteen days of college. He would have to borrow the note book from a student and copy the notes given during the last two weeks! He would now have to devote full attention to his studies, else his aspiration of becoming a doctor would remain just a dream.
By eight in the morning, his younger brothers, Razzak and Firoze had woken up. Both were rubbing their eyes when Iqbal told them to get ready soon. Both looked at him. There were still two more hours to go before school.
By the time both completed their daily chores, and strapped their school bags onto their backs, it was 9 o' clock. Gul Banu still could not understand what was happening.
She asked, “Iqbal! What’s all the hurry about?”
“I’m taking them out for fresh air,” he replied looking at Razzak and Firoze standing near the door.
“Now?”
“In the car.”
“Car?” Gul Banu's eyes widened.
“I’ll take a round of Chowpatty and drop them to school before the bell.”
“But, where did you get a car?”
“It belongs to a friend, Maa.” Holding the hands of both his brothers, he said, “I’ve to return it next week.”
The Fiat car was parked on Palkhi Mohalla outside the Munda Galli. Iqbal opened the door, signaled to both of them to get in and took the driver's seat. Both the brothers were still standing outside. Both were looking at the car with amazement. Razzak was moving his hand over the car's body as if it was a pet puppy.
Iqbal turned the key and started the car. On hearing the whirr of the engine, both jumped in and sat beside him. Crossing the Palkhi Mohalla, the car turned left. Since there was less traffic at this time of the morning, the car headed fast, crossing Bhindi Bazaar, Nal Bazaar, Gol Deval, Prarthana Samaj and reached Chowpatty in a few minutes.
With the ebb of the tide, the sea had gone far off. On the beach, there were only as many people as could be counted on one’s finger tips. Some were strolling, while others were basking in the mellow sun. Iqbal did not stop the car here but turned towards the Hanging Gardens (at Malabar Hill). Going around the hill, he soon reached the top. He parked the car and took both his brothers along. Here, from the top of the hill, standing near the railing, one could see all of Bombay city.
Both the brothers held the steel railing and watched. Amazement was clearly visible on their faces. The fog over the city had almost dispersed and the sunrays were still soft. From here the buildings looked like toys. One could see the dense smoke, belched out steadily by the mill chimneys, forming clouds overhead.
Iqbal went to the hawker selling ice candy nearby, bought two and gave one each to his brothers. Their faces lit up with joy. Iqbal's mind wandered back to his own childhood.
He had grown up almost like an orphan. Nobody had taken him for an outing or taken to a picnic spot, nobody had ever even offered him a sweet. Both his mother and father had spent their life battling to survive.
Around 9.30 am, both the brothers were back in the car. Iqbal chose a different route to return. The car came down from Mount Pleasant Road and ran down Nepean Sea Road.
At exactly 9.40, he stopped the car near the main gate of Habib High School. Both the brothers got down, waved at him proudly and ran inside. He started the car and drove towards Pydhonie.
He had to deliver the two jackets given by Bhesadia to a stranger there. He reached before time. Parking the car near the chemist's shop adjacent to the Pydhonie police station, he crossed the road. From the opposite footpath, he could closely watch the jeweler who was supposed to come to take the delivery. He wanted to spot the jeweler before the latter identified him.
It was almost eleven now. The street began to get crowded by nine. From the movement of people it appeared as if a bomb was about to be dropped on the city. People were scurrying in different directions. There was quite a crowd at the chemist's shop, hollering above each other as if at an auction house. Nearby, pigeons fed on rice on the pavements and roosted on the heritage buildings.
Iqbal was surveying the view when he realized that a man wearing a dhoti and shirt had stopped near the chemist's shop. He had a Gandhi cap on his head and glasses with wired frames on his eyes. Like Iqbal, he too was standing quietly scanning faces.
Iqbal was now certain. He crossed the road and standing behind the jeweller he tapped lightly on his shoulder. Startled, the jeweller turned around and stared blankly. Iqbal did not need to say anything. He proceeded towards the car. The jeweller followed. Soon, they were both sitting in the front seats of the car. Iqbal started the car.
The jeweller was still wondering how the young man driving the car had recognised him. At last, to satisfy his curiosity he asked him. Iqbal ignored the question and demanded, “Where is the note?”
The jeweller immediately took out a one-rupee note from his shirt pocket and placed it before him. By this time, the car had crossed Mohammed Ali Road and reached Fountain. From here, he came to the Gateway of India and parked the car. Now, he compared the number on the one-rupee note with the number written on the chit inspector Bhesadia had given him. The numbers matched. Iqbal kept the note as proof of delivery, took out both the jackets kept under the seat wrapped in brown paper and gave them to him. “Where do I drop you?” he asked.
He dropped the jeweller near Princess Street before one o’clock and came to Haji Ali. Inspector Bhesadia was waiting for him in the cabin at the petrol pump. Iqbal parked the car and entered.
“Everything went off well, dikra?”
Iqbal handed him the chit along with the one-rupee note. Bhesadia glanced at the two numbers for a moment and smiled. He drew out ten notes of hundred rupees from his pocket and placed the one-rupee note on top. “This is your share.”
Putting the notes in his pocket, Iqbal got up.
“Are you in a hurry?” Bhesadia asked.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve to attend college in the afternoon.”
“Hmmm…” Bhesadia too got up and patting his back added, “I’m sure you will make a name for yourself one day.”
Sitting in the car, Iqbal wondered whether Bhesadia had congratulated him for his dedication to studies or for having delivered the two jackets. He could not figure him out. One thing was for sure – Bhesadia had noted down his name in his diary as an honest
young man. He was to smuggle gold worth millions under Bhesadia's patronage.
“Aabidbhai!” Sufi interrupted his narrative to ask the same old question, “What is smuggling?”
I knew the answer this time. “Duty not paid on export or import of goods and surreptitiously brought in or sent out.”
“Now tell me, whom will you call a smuggler?” He rattled off a barrage of questions, “the man who legally sends gold from Dubai to India? The boatman who brings the gold in his boat to India? The gang that takes the delivery of the gold from the boatman in the cover of the night? That invisible mafia who receives payment from the jeweler? And don’t you forget, this invisible man has never taken an active part in trafficking. Just tell me at whom will you point an accusing finger and say that he is a smuggler?”
Chapter 10
When I returned home after spending a month in Habib Hospital, I felt as if I had left my body somewhere behind. What reached home was just a skeleton. It was difficult for me to stand, let alone move, without someone's support.
(Iqbal was lucky. He had recovered from his pneumonia in just two weeks and was once again active.)
I spent another fifteen days at home. All these days I fondly remembered my room in the hospital. There, from the window situated on the west side, I used to see the open sky, my eyes filling with the crimson colour of the setting sun. Sometimes a flock of birds would fly past in an orderly fashion. Reclining on the pillow, I also observed with interest the activities of the Children's Home opposite. Time flew.
Here on the first floor of Sultan Mansion, my dimly lit room had only one window. The columns of iron bars on the window symbolized a prison cell. Besides, the window directly overlooked an open gutter. At times, when it overflowed, it emitted a head-splitting stench. Like the worms of the gutter, we had become accustomed to the foul smell. But after spending a month in the hospital, I had lost touch with this stinking garret. Moreover, I had become accustomed to certain luxuries.
I had developed a fondness for the sunlight that came percolating through the window. The sun would slowly spread all over my bed. I loved it. We used to play together. I would interlock my fingers and place them against the sunlight. This would cast a shadow over the white sheet of my bed. In a few days, I had learned to make shadow images of around twenty animals.
Here, sunlight had no access into my dimly-lit room. I did not have the strength to go outside for a glimpse of the sun. There was no way out. Moreover it was not in my nature to sit idle doing nothing.
Watching the little devils’ in the Children’s Home I started thinking about the subjects for children's tales. I was thinking about them from the point of view of cartoon comics. (The three impish characters, Sonu, Bhagu and Lakhudi, who had become a craze in the children's Gujarati monthly magazine, 'Ramakdu', were born during this period.)
Prior to this, I had never done any creative writing, nor had I thought about it. Of course, I used to look out for small ideas for pocket cartoons and comic strips. But the visualization of a complete story to make a four-page comic was a different ball-game altogether.
So I worked out about half a dozen stories and one evening following my recovery, I went with my file to Dr. R J Chinwala's house. He was not at home. But scriptwriter Mushtaq Jalili, who stayed in his apartment, was sitting there reading an Urdu classic of Ibrahim Jalis. Actually, I had gone there in the hope of meeting him.
Wanting his opinion, I narrated to him my ideas for children's stories in Hindustani. He looked at me for a while and then asked, “Aabid, would you like to work with me?”
I stared at him. “What?”
“I write for films and I need an assistant.”
“But,” I said perplexed, more to myself than to him, “I’ve never ever written anything.”
He laughed and asked, “Who wrote these stories?”
“I did…” I said happily. There must have been some freshness in my concepts, else this writer would not have asked me to be his assistant. Besides, by working with him on his stories, I would be able to learn his technique.
Every writer has his own way of thinking and his own peculiar style. Mushtaq Jalili's technique was also unique. He had his own method of developing characters. I could not resist the temptation of knowing his secret. I accepted his proposal gladly.
Dr. Chinwala's house had proved a boon for me. Here I got two teachers at one go. For painting, I got Yusuf Dhala and for writing I had Mushtaq Jalili. “Aabid writes quite weird but wonderful tales with a magic element,” he once told the painter.
One can also say, in a way, that inspector Bhesadia's patronage had proved beneficial for Iqbal. He had successfully carried out Bhesadia's assignment of delivering two 'jackets'. In turn, he had received a thousand rupees, at the rate of five hundred rupees per jacket. (And an additional one rupee as a good omen.)
Half this amount was spent on settling the grocer’s and other bills. Before the rest of the money got wiped out, Bhesadia assigned him the task of delivering one more jacket for which he got five hundred rupees. After that, he did not get any phone call from Bhesadia for the next two months.
Iqbal’s domestic condition again became precarious. Tension fluttered its owl-like wings. He thought that it would be difficult to survive as Bhesadia's ‘carrier’ (one who delivers goods from one place to another), because the uncertainty of the work had started affecting his studies.
The first year's examinations were approaching soon. His worry was not that he would pass or fail. He could succeed easily by going through the 'notes' a week before the examinations. But he did not intend to just get through, he wanted to secure a First class with distinction.
He was trying hard to concentrate on his studies when his neighbour knocked at the door. “Iqbal! There is a call for you.” He placed the book upside down and got up immediately. Entering the neighbour's house, he picked up the receiver and said, “Hello!” The phone call was from Bhesadia. He told him to meet at the garage in the lane adjoining Bhavan's College the following afternoon between 1 and 2 p.m.
He left college during the recess and reached the garage at exactly seven minutes past one. Bhesadia was already there. His jeep had developed some problems and he had come there to get it repaired.
On seeing Iqbal, he smiled warmly. When he did not see any reaction on Iqbal's face, he asked, “Dikra, you are looking like a dead duck…anything wrong?”
“The examinations are approaching.”
“If a bright student like you starts worrying, then what will become of the other students?”
Iqbal told him frankly, “The five hundred rupees you had given me last time is already finished. If I don't get regular work, how can I concentrate on my studies?”
“Oh…That's true.” After pondering for a while, Bhesadia said, “OK, I’ll make some arrangement. Are you busy this evening?”
Iqbal replied that he was not.
“Come to the petrol pump at six in the evening.”
He understood. Again the same routine. Inspector Bhesadia would give him one or two jackets which he would have wrangled somehow. As a ‘carrier,’ he would deliver these jackets to some jeweller and again earn five hundred to a thousand rupees. He would have to survive like this.
By the time the examinations got over, Bhesadia had given him two more assignments. On both the occasions, he was given one jacket each for delivery.
Then one day, Bhesadia explained, “Understand, dikra. I know your problem. But I’m not in a position to give you regular work. Whatever I’m doing isn’t my business. I’ve no more interest in it than to earn some extra bucks. But you don't worry, I won't let you down. You are honest, you have the right to live and progress in life.”
Both of them were sipping limejuice standing by the Haji Ali parapet, facing the sea. The tide had covered the narrow serpentine path that led the way through the sea to the mausoleum.
“Have you seen Gaylord Restaurant?” Bhesadia asked him at last.
He
nodded.
“Go there and ask for Mr. Singh at the counter. He will be sitting inside somewhere.”
“What do I tell him?”
“Just refer my name. He will know.”
“What is the best time to see him?”
“Between five and seven in the evening.”
Iqbal looked at his wristwatch. It was 4 o’clock. He again looked up at his godfather.
“Go with God, dikra.”
I interrupted Sufi and asked, “What’s your opinion about inspector Bhesadia today?”
“In what context are you asking?” he countered
“Whenever you faced a crisis, he stood by you,” I said. “Of course, his method of helping you was not desirable. Still, he had become your godfather. He wasn’t interested in just his own well-being but yours as well.”
“If he was really concerned, he should have slapped me hard on our very first meeting.”
“Then how would you have survived?”
Sufi looked up at the sky, as if he had not heard my words. We were sitting on chairs placed on the terrace of his house. “I was a juvenile delinquent.” Lowering his face, he said “Bhesadia picked me up from a pothole and tossed me into a well. Now he was pulling me out from a pond and throwing me into a lake. Soon I was to come out of it to dive into the ocean of crime.”