Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  “Really?”

  “Of course...”

  “When did you seduce her?”

  “What nonsense!” He blurted, “I don't even know her.”

  The taxi driver looked back from the rear-view mirror and smiled. He presumed that the two passengers must be father and son.

  “If you lie, I’ll skin you alive.”

  “I’ve told you the truth only.”

  “Then how come her name was on your lips?”

  “Sir, sometimes I think aloud.”

  The taxi turned into the Bhavan's College lane and stood near the garage. Bhesadia's jeep was under repairs here. He paid the taxi driver and got down. Iqbal followed him.

  The manager was standing near the entrance. He said, “Jeep is ready.”

  “I’m not,” Bhesadia said scoffing. “Is someone there at the back of the garage?” he asked.

  “A mechanic is resting.”

  “Throw him out.”

  The manager went ahead. Both of them followed him like marching soldiers. Iqbal observed that the garage, which looked like a closed telescope, extended like a telescope opening. The noise inside was unbearable.

  A mechanic was scraping the paint off a car, creating that incessant screeching which really gets on your nerves after a point, while another was tinkering with a hammer to straighten a dent on the body of another car. The engine of a car was being taken out, while another car was waiting for a new coat of colour like an orphan. There were patches of oil at some places and balls of thread and dirty rags lying hither and thither.

  Winding their way through all this and crossing a wooden plank laid over a cesspool, all three of them reached the back of the garage. A room had been created there with tin sheets. The manager went in and came out with the boy who had been sleeping inside.

  “Welcome dikra,” Bhesadia was more than polite.

  Iqbal understood that the time had come to face the music. He would be lucky if his guru allowed him to leave this place in one piece for he had interfered in the guru’s case. He had escaped from Singh's flat with the two jackets and that might have made a dent in his guru’s reputation.

  Bhesadia entered after him. There was a bench and a couple of piles of tyres where one could sit. There were four empty drums in a corner. On the tin wall hung the mechanic’s clothes.

  Bhesadia indicated a pile of tyres for him to sit on. He sat quietly. Before saying anything, Bhesadia walked up and down twice from one wall to another. “Do you know just how foolish you have been?”

  He again walked two rounds and added, “Can you imagine what will come of this?”

  “What, Sir?” he asked innocently.

  Unexpectedly, Bhesadia slapped him hard on the face. “You bastard! Trying to act smart!” All his pent up anger came out through his eyes, face and the clenched fist. “My image will be tarnished in tomorrow's newspapers; my superiors will question me; did I send six men from the department to keep vigil or to picnic?”

  Blabbering, he came behind Iqbal and hit him on the back with full force and then screamed in pain. He had forgotten in his rage that Iqbal had worn, under the shirt, the jackets containing gold biscuits.

  Iqbal sat quietly. He knew that if he opened his mouth before his demented guru, he had had it. Bhesadia continued his verbal lashing for some more time, intermittently kicking and punching him. Finally, he came in front of him, caught his hair and said menacingly, “Tell me, do I throw you behind bars or cut your nose right here?”

  “Sir,” said Iqbal grabbing the opportunity, “that you should have done when I met you for the first time at your headquarters.”

  Bhesadia was not prepared for this answer. His grip on Iqbal's head loosened. He looked at him steadily for a few seconds. Then, “Was it a mistake to have taken pity on you? Was it my fault that I stood by you in your days of hunger? Who gave you the opportunity you got to join college? My crime?” Challenging Iqbal with a barrage of questions, he thundered again, “Tell me, you scoundrel!”

  “I can’t say for sure that you obliged me out of pity; but I can say confidently that you have blundered by teaching me honestly.”

  Bhesadi was more confused:. “What do you mean?”

  Iqbal stood up and looking straight into his eyes shot back, “You introduced me to Singh. He gave me the first assignment. I carried out the job with total honesty. Why? Because you had vouched for me-- that I was an honest person. What did I get in return for my integrity? Three slaps, ten kicks and seven blows. Moreover, you pulled my hair, twitched my ears, squeezed my neck...”

  “Enough, enough,” said Bhesadia interrupting him. “Wasn’t it your duty to inform me before poking your big Pinocchio nose in my affairs?”

  “Had I known, I’d have certainly consulted you.”

  Iqbal's truthfulness convinced him. “Hmm...” he became thoughtful, took a few steps and sat on the bench nearby. “I understand what you say. You have spoiled my case unwittingly but the law doesn’t recognise ignorance.”

  Iqbal did not catch the essence. Bhesadia explained, “Suppose a man catches a stray chicken, cooks and relishes it. The next day he is charged with theft, he cannot escape the law saying- I thought there was no claimant. The law does not recognise ignorance.”

  “What has that got to do with me?”

  “You will have to atone for your ignorance.” Bhesadia ordered from the bench, “Dikra, take off both the jackets!”

  In the evening when Iqbal reached Hotel Natraj, Singh had already opened the bottle of ‘White Horse’ whiskey. This was his daily routine. After sunset, he would come to his room and start drinking. He would finish off at least one bottle by midnight. Sometimes, there would be friends with him and sometimes he would invite those whom he wished to treat. This last category of people included politicians, bureaucrats of the secretariat, police officers etc.

  Today, there was a call girl with him. It was she who had opened the door. Reclining on a pillow Singh was sitting on the double bed, stretching his legs. He had a glass in his hand. A plate of shami kebab was lying on the white bed sheet.

  After Iqbal entered, the call girl closed the door and stood near the window with her back to them. Across the road at Marine Drive, the sea was swaying in ecstasy. The call girl's beauty was flowing out of her mini-skirt. Iqbal guessed that she might be new to the profession.

  He turned and looked at Singh. Singh was keenly observing him. Gradually his cold blue eyes focussed on Iqbal's chest and stopped there. In truth he had not believed that the kid standing before him would triumph! Even if he was lucky and succeeded in his mission, it would be impossible to come out with the jackets. From the size of Iqbal's chest it was evident that he had one on him. (Where was the other one?)

  Before Singh could say anything, Iqbal went to the bathroom, removed the jacket and returned. “Sorry Singh,” he said, folding the jacket and placing it on the double bed, “I couldn’t live up to my words.”

  Singh was intrigued. The young man was of quite a different make than the rest of his men. He was actually expressing regret that he could not get both the jackets.

  Even if he had not brought this one, who would have questioned him! Who would have known? He had clearly instructed Iqbal to throw away the jackets from the bathroom and get back.

  Singh also knew that one jacket was valued at Rs.180, 000 (at 1966 prices). One can afford the loss of two jackets but one cannot afford to run into trouble with the police. Besides, for traffickers dealing in hundreds of millions of rupees, this was a petty sum.

  Singh gestured to him to sit and asked, “What happened to the other jacket?”

  “I had to gift it to my guru.” Sitting on the sofa facing Singh, he narrated the entire incident. At the end he added, “Mr. Bhesadia wanted to confiscate both the jackets. After much haggling, I settled for one.”

  Iqbal’s status rose in Singh's esteem. “Kiran!” he addressed the call girl standing near the window, “We need one more glass to celebrate.”


  Before she could move, Iqbal said, “I don't drink.”

  Singh was surprised. He raised his thick eyebrows. What kind of a young man is this? He does not smoke, does not drink, not even tea or coffee.

  “Hope you aren’t feeling shy!”

  He laughed and said, “This bottle of White Horse is one of the most expensive whiskeys in the world. No one ignores it for the sake of decorum.”

  That was also true. “Please understand, Iqbal. I’m very happy with you. Whatever you ask for...” he looked at Kiran proprietarily and back to Iqbal with a sugary smile, “You will get it.”

  His hint was obvious. He could demand the 16-year-old beauty whose nightly rate was Rs.2,500. (In the mid sixties that was a lot of money.) On the other hand, he could have kept the jacket worth Rs.80,000 and from being a pauper become a prince.

  “Ask man, whatever you desire.”

  He took out from his pocket the bill of the florist from the Taj Hotel and placed it before him. “What’s this?” Singh could not understand. He looked at Iqbal like a fool.

  “A hundred rupees for the flowers, plus 18 rupees and 50 paisa for the taxi fare.”

  Singh burst out laughing like a fire-cracker. Like a tennis-match viewer, Kiran was looking at both of them alternately with her eyes flickering. She then focused her gaze on Iqbal and felt – Her beauty and youth were like a fistful of dust before this young man. He had not accepted her, even for free. Singh doubled up laughing.

  My cartoons may not have made readers laugh, but they did tickle them.

  I had started with 'Chitralekha.' My cartoons had been carried by The Times of India. In 'Chet Machhandar', I had discontinued my cartoon strip 'Batukbhai' and in its place introduced a one-page cartoon feature, 'Prof. Chhelbatau'. It met with instant success. In 'Ramakdu', my trio of mischievous cartoon characters, 'Sonu, Bhagu and Lakhudi', were a rage among the Gujarati readers.

  The first two years at Art School are for general grounding to find our way. Quite early, I discovered that I had a knack for line drawing. It paid off. On standing second in the first year of fine arts, my tuition fee was waived. Moreover, I also got a scholarship. But art materials were so expensive that I needed to look for a part-time job. I confided my problem to Mohan Barodia, who was a friend of the Urdu writer Mushtaq Jalili.

  Those days, Mohan, who had also become my close friend, was an assistant to the famous film director Shakti Samanta. After pondering over my problem for quite some time, he finally said, “Aabid! I’ve only one solution to your problem and that’s the film industry. I can get you a job there. But you will have to do donkey work.”

  I asked for a night to sleep over the matter. After giving it serious thought I felt that this was the only field where I could fully express my feelings; because filmmaking involves several forms of art. Secondly, I was not in a position to accept a ten-to-five job, whereas in the film industry, I was required to be present only when there was shooting.

  I joined Shakti Samanta's team. The film was called “Singapore”. Mohan was the chief there. He had two assistants working under him. I was given the fourth position. Like in government offices, a peon is sarcastically referred to as a 'third grade officer', so was I the fourth assistant director. However, my work was no better than that of a domestic servant.

  After the shot was ready, I was required to sweep the floor and mop it with a damp cloth. Sometimes, I had to run to the property room carrying the sandals of the heroine or carry a cup of tea for the hero to the make-up room. Amid such miscellaneous work, I was also given an important task and that was to give the 'clap', the first step to direction.

  I was happy. Here there was an ocean of knowledge for me to dive in, discover and imbibe. It used to take two to three hours between the shots for changing the lighting. I started reading during these breaks. I commenced with Sharatbabu's novel 'Devdas', sitting in a corner of the set. (He was Mushtaq Jalili's favourite writer and he insisted that I read the full set of his books.)

  The shooting was completed in about one and a half years by which time I had read the entire work of Sharatbabu. A new vision opened before me. Powerful Bengali characters floated before my eyes. For the first time I got inspiration: If Sharatbabu can write a book, why can't I?

  I was to provoke myself thus from time to time and whiz past milestone after milestone in life. In the field of cartoons, my target was Walt Disney while in the field of painting, Dutch painter Van Gogh haunted me. In literature, Sharatbabu became my idol.

  Iqbal's target was Singh. As he came closer to Singh, his resolve became firm. Singh also liked him. Who would not like a young man who offers namaaz five times a day, does not have any bad habits, who is educated, bold and intelligent?

  Like Mohan had put me on to the lowest rung to lay the foundation of my new life, Singh also did likewise for Iqbal. He had become a ‘carrier’ like a school fresher. He was not at all interested in the work but nevertheless, remained quiet. The time was not yet ripe to fly high.

  The vacation was over and college had reopened. From the ‘first year’, Iqbal was promoted to ‘inter’. He could join a medical college if he was successful this year. For that, he needed to put in hard work in his studies. He decided to join Bhola coaching classes.

  While stepping into the college campus, he remembered Kusum. A sharp nose, a determined chin, a clean intelligent gaze. He stopped for a while. After all, who was she? She was like any other student in his class. Whenever they used to come across each other, they would smile formally and go their own way.

  He also knew that Kusum was in love with a boy. He had seen her going in that young man's car more than once. Yet, why was he feeling disturbed? Why was he confronted by queer questions?

  What did Kusum think seeing him come down the drain pipe? Would his image as a gentleman been wiped off her mind? The next moment he got the answer and his stationary feet headed towards the lift.

  How did it matter whether his image received a battering or not? It had been about two months since that incident. Perhaps she had forgotten about it during the vacation.

  The first period was free. He took the lift to the fourth floor and sat in the library. The book ‘Babarnama’ lay in front of him. He was not interested in literature but loved to read books in which he could get to know something new about different religions. He was particularly interested in studying Islam.

  He wanted to know why, like men, religions too grow old? Why, like the soul leaves the body, virtue leaves religion, making it defunct? Why blind followers proudly hug the corpse of religion?

  He got up after about an hour to return the book. Kusum, who was turning the pages of a magazine, got up too. Naturally, his attention was drawn towards her. Their eyes met. For the first time he observed that she had an impressive face, handsome, rather than beautiful. Cinnamon eyes, ebony hair, a wide white smile. She gave the impression of a sound mind in a sound body.

  She smiled.

  Both came out together.

  “You forgot to return my smile today,” she reminded walking beside him.

  “I’d have definitely returned it had that been a formal one.”

  “Was it a special one?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “You are a strange fellow.”

  “Thanks for the compliment”.

  “To be frank, I’ve been flooded with questions ever since I saw you first.”

  Iqbal just listened while walking with her.

  “I’ve never seen you carrying comics or cheap paperbacks. Even today, you were reading the translation of a historical book, Babarnama.”

  Iqbal got excited. Forgetting everything, he blurted out, “Do you know who imposed a ban on cow-slaughter first?”

  “Babar?”

  “True,” he said and added, “Our library is a treasure trove of knowledge. We can see the world through its windows.”

  “You’re right!” She agreed stopping near the lift. “But I prefer to look at the world from my
balcony.”

  This simple statement hit Iqbal like a bolt from the blue. He writhed in pain from within. Was it because she said the truth? Was it because she had hit him with a velvet glove? What was her motive? Was she happy with what she had seen from the balcony or was she disturbed? He retreated into a chilly silence, pretending to be cool.

  One thing was certain that she meant well for Iqbal, else she would not have cared to look at him, if her statement – I’ve been flooded with questions ever since I saw you first – was to be taken at face value. Truth be told, she had been observing Iqbal since the first year of college.

  As the lift arrived, both of them entered quietly. The two young hearts, who were chatting like intimate friends a few moments ago, became strangers. Kusum, who was obliquely observing the changing colours of his face, knew that she had touched the spot that hurts.

  “Did I say anything wrong?”

  Confronted by a sudden question, he blurted out, “Oh, no.”

  “Then why are you silent?”

  “I was contemplating, how different are the views of the world as seen from the window and the balcony?”