Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  The lift stopped and Kusum opened the door. “Did you get the answer?”

  “In the first instance, we get a limited view of the world because of the window frame. Whereas in the second instance we get an unlimited view because there is no obstruction,” he replied. “But…if a person sees, hears and speaks within the bounds of his requirements, he can never be sorry.”

  Giving an equally befitting reply to a sharp blow, he stepped out of the lift and without turning back went towards the classroom.

  In the evening he registered his name in Bhola Coaching Classes and reached Natraj Hotel. Still Kusum was quivering in his thoughts. Was it necessary to get an eye for an eye? The answer was negative. However, he was compelled to do so because it had become part of his nature. In the world of crime in which he lived, it was customary to pelt a stone in reply to a brick.

  On seeing Singh, he closed the Kusum chapter and opened a new one. He had made up his mind today to put an end to his role as a 'carrier'. “Please understand, Singh,” he sat on the sofa facing him and tried to persuade Singh who was relaxing on the double bed, “No one employs a graduate as a peon. My condition is exactly like that. The work of delivering jackets from one place to another belongs to a green horn. And, you must have realised by now that I’m not that.”

  Singh listened to him attentively, took a sip from the crystal glass and asked, “What do you want?”

  “Crossing.”

  ‘Crossing’ involved unloading of contraband goods from one ship to another in mid-sea at midnight. He had accompanied Rashid Parkar once on such an assignment but only as a porter. Moreover, he was born to give orders, not to receive them. To reach that position it was essential to rise from the bottom and move up step by step to the top.

  “Have some patience,” Singh said, “You’ll be promoted at the appropriate time.”

  “I want to know when will that time come?”

  “Very soon, the boss is pleased with you.”

  “Boss!” he exclaimed.

  “There is someone over me too.”

  For the first time he realised that he had chosen wrongly. Singh was merely a step on a long ladder.

  Chapter 13

  Shakti Samanta’s film ended and with it, my job. Before I could experience the pangs of unemployment, Urdu writer Mushtaq Jalili succeeded in selling his story 'Begana' to producer-director Sadashiv Rao Kavi.

  After a series of failures, another of Mushtaq Jalili’s stories was to be made into a film. He introduced me to this new group as an assistant director and I got a new job.

  In those days, Dharmendra had just arrived in Bombay to try his luck. He had signed a few B and C grade films like 'Dil Bhi Tera Hum Bhi Tere'. This was his first social film. This was an excellent opportunity for him to work with a successful director, Sadashiv Rao Kavi. Kavi had made a name for himself with the film 'Bhabhi Ki Chudiyaan' starring Balraj Sahni and Meena Kumari.

  There was only one assistant director Prem Kumar in the unit. He alone handled the work of three assistants. After my joining him as junior assistant, he transferred a lot of his workload onto me. That also gave me many more opportunities to learn. I gained experience in new fields such as song recording, editing and dubbing.

  In the shooting of the film 'Singapore', my work was confined to Bombay; I was left behind when the unit went for shooting abroad. Being the second in command in the direction department here, I received my first opportunity to go out of Bombay for a location shoot. The place was Agra. A song was to be shot on the lawns of the Taj Mahal.

  If my memory serves me right the five-star hotel, the Clarke Siraj, had opened in Agra the same month. We had reservations there. Dharmendra was staying in the room next to me. He was a friendly and happy go lucky sort of person, and I was of a cool temperament, so we got along well.

  Dharmendra had that special quality of easily mixing with new acquaintances, just like sugar mixes with milk. He used to put his arm around the shoulder of the lowliest person in the unit and chat freely. Perhaps this was the key to his success.

  I was interested in his life, in his talks. Mostly, he used to talk and I used to listen. We would return to the hotel every evening after the shooting got over. He would open the bottle and start talking. The more he drank the more cheerful the atmosphere would become.

  “Aabid, would you like to succeed in life?” He would ask me invariably after polishing off half the bottle.

  I would invariably give him the same reply, “Who doesn’t want to succeed?”

  “Then you have to drink.” And then he would place the bottle before me. “Start today… be great tomorrow!”

  I would take the bottle from him and change the topic. This continued for a few days. Then one day he became wise to my tactics. That day, instead of handing me the bottle he prepared a peg.

  “Take it.”

  I had never tasted liquor. Alcoholic drinks never had any charm for me. Though I had smoked a few cigarettes in my childhood, I was never addicted. But liquor was not part of my upbringing. Since early childhood, I remembered being told that Islam forbids liquor.

  “Take it,” he yelled again.

  I tasted liquor for the first time. Moreover, I liked it. It ejected the fatigue of the daylong shooting. That night I slept soundly. I was fresh and cheerful in the morning.

  I had one peg with Dharmendra every night as long as we stayed in Agra. That was my limit. I did not want to get drunk and lose my senses. I just wanted to keep my mind and body tuned.

  I have accepted certain maxims with regard to liquor. Never touch it when in trouble or your mood is blue. If someone takes a drink in sorrow, the urge to drink more will take over. This was the tragedy of Devdas. First, he had liquor, then liquor had him.

  It is true that liquor is like a poisonous snake. But it can be an elixir for one who can control it. The glimmer on his face will reveal it.

  Iqbal lost the radiance of his face. He was facing several problems at the same time. After joining Singh's gang, he had got stuck on the first rung. He had no interest in the job of a delivery boy. He wanted to rise to the top, and fast.

  The other problem cropped up in college. Kusum's boyfriend Sharad got suspicious. It became obvious that Kusum was paying special attention to Iqbal. Sharad presumed that he was trying to woo her.

  Iqbal's third problem came unexpectedly. His two younger brothers, Razzak and Firoze, were still studying in school. Firoze, like him, was devoted to his studies. But Razzak had lost interest. His grades were plummeting steadily. In the last terminal examinations, he had failed in three subjects. And as for the other subjects, the less said, the better.

  Iqbal was not unaware of it. One day, some boys from the lane turned up at his door. As Iqbal was about to leave for college, the boys blocked his way. He saw blood dripping from the face of a boy standing in the middle.

  In a sudden flash Iqbal’s whole past appeared to him, not as a delicately embroidered Kashmiri shawl, but as a coarse tribal blanket. He recalled the day when he had broken the nose of a boy called Ali. Then too, the boys from the street had come to complain to his father. Hussain Ali had beaten him black and blue.

  Today, he had taken the place of his father. History was repeating itself. He was faced with the same situation. He had no solution. Razzak was not going to improve even if he beat him to pulp. Perhaps, he thought, persuasion would have a better impact.

  He reassured the boys from the lane and came to the college where he saw Sharad leaning on his car accompanied by a gang of five, lying in wait for him. It didn’t stir a single cell of his body. Pretending to be unaware of their presence, Iqbal continued walking. The moment he came close, Sharad swiftly raised his hand blocking his way. “What's the hurry?”

  Iqbal looked straight into his eyes and gave a befitting reply. “I come here to study, not to fritter away dad's money.”

  Sharad caught him by his collar and pulled his face towards him. “I thought as much – that you come to study
and not to romance. Remember, if you ever try to make a pass at Kusum, you won't go home in one piece.”

  Iqbal did not consider it worthwhile to react. He knew that Sharad took great pride in his strength. Besides, he had his cronies for reinforcement. Iqbal did not want to play superhero and challenge them. At least in the college, he wanted his image to remain that of a well-behaved, cultured student.

  Sharad pushed him before releasing his collar. He stepped back, readjusted his shirt and entered the college.

  It was the day for ‘practicals’. For the first time, the students were to observe a dissected frog and study its organs. A frog was kept on its back on each table amidst seven students.

  The table allotted to Iqbal was also allotted to Kusum. Sharad saw it from a distance and his eyes turned bloodshot; but he was helpless. He also knew that Iqbal had nothing to do with it. Each group of seven students was formed on the basis of alphabetical order. The surnames of both Iqbal and Kusum started with the letter 'R' and so they were side by side.

  Iqbal obliquely glanced at Sharad and felt a bit uneasy, but he too was equally helpless. He could not change the table, else he would have done so. He did not want to hurt anyone's feelings without rhyme or reason. He did not want to invite trouble unnecessarily. Finally, accepting the situation he requested the lecturer standing before him, “Sir, with your permission, can I dissect the frog?”

  The lecturer was pleasantly surprised. Today was the first day of the practical. He was to demonstrate to the students how to dissect a frog. But, he did not know that Iqbal had come prepared for it in advance. He had joined Bhola Classes where he had seen the dissection of frogs. He had tried it at home also. It was like child's play for him now.

  Kusum shuddered from within. There was a great difference between the upbringing of Kusum and Iqbal. He was a non-vegetarian whereas Kusum, a Jain, was more than vegetarian. She could hardly bear to watch the dissection of a frog, let alone perform it. She was feeling uneasy.

  She wanted to escape from the class; but that was not possible. She too wanted to join medical college and become a doctor. If she could not watch, how would she dissect ? If she could not dissect a frog, how would she operate on a human body, God’s most beautiful creation?

  She suppressed her feelings and looked at the frog with great apprehension. Iqbal had a scalpel in his hand. Like a surgeon, he held it on the frog's neck and slowly brought it down. The rest of the students watched in awe as the frog's belly opened up.

  Kusum's eyes widened with her mouth agape. She felt completely nauseated. She put her hand over her mouth. This did not make any difference. Darkness engulfed her. Swirling with dizziness, she fell on Iqbal. Throwing the scalpel on the table, Iqbal held her in his hands. She was unconscious.

  The lecturer rushed from across, while Sharad leaped from the left. The lecturer gave him a piercing look that sent him back to his table. Iqbal was still standing in his place, holding Kusum in his hands. He was caught in a bind.

  The lecturer motioned to him and he followed carrying Kusum. Both crossed the passage and came to the staff-room. Iqbal laid down Kusum's unconscious body on a long table. The lecturer switched on the fan.

  As the blades started with a whirring sound, Kusum came back to her senses. She stared at the moving fan overhead for a while. Suddenly she remembered everything and sat up.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” she said softly addressing the lecturer. Then she glanced at Iqbal and looked down embarrassed

  “Sir, my experiment is incomplete. Can I go back to the class?” asked Iqbal.

  “Sure...”

  Kusum stepped down from the table. “Iqbal! I’m coming with you.”

  Iqbal stopped near the door of the staff-room. He was as surprised as the lecturer.

  “It is not compulsory,” the lecturer said.

  “Sir, if I won't get rid of this revulsion, how will I be able to progress in life?”

  With Iqbal she proceeded towards the class.

  “What happened?” she asked while walking alongside him.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I only know that suddenly there was this darkness before my eyes and I passed out.”

  “You passed out swirling and into my arms.” Iqbal chuckled, “I brought you here holding you in my arms.”

  “Really!”

  “What's there to be surprised?”

  “Did you not find me a bit heavy?”

  Iqbal stopped and looked at her. This time, Kusum did not lower her eyes. Both looked deep into each other's eyes steadily. In these few tender moments Iqbal realised that Kusum loved him sincerely.

  When he arrived at Singh's hotel room in the evening, he was not there. But Kiran was. It was she who answered the door and welcomed him. He wondered where Singh, who always came before seven in the evening for drink and fun, might have disappeared.

  Before entering the room he asked Kiran, “When is he expected?”

  “I don't know.”

  He was about to return when Kiran said, “He has asked you to wait.”

  Iqbal entered, Kiran closed the door. He became alert, though there was no reason to be. Nobody keeps the door open. And, if the room belongs to a smuggler, the question of keeping the door open does not arise at all.

  He crossed the double bed, sat on a sofa and looked at Kiran. She was at the window. “Are you afraid of me?” she focused her glittering kohl-lined eyes upon him and asked impishly from there.

  Iqbal had not expected such a question from her. In fact, he was a bit cautious. His heartbeats had increased because he was sitting with a girl in a closed room. Kiran realized his uneasiness.

  Replying to her question, he compressed his lips and indicated 'No' by a gesture.

  “Then why are you sitting on the edge?” she grinned like a cat and added, “Rest your back and sit comfortably.”

  It was true that he was sitting upright on the edge of the sofa as if someone was about to attack him and he was ready with his defense. Kiran moved from near the window, came in front of him, put her two hands on his shoulder and gently pushed him so that his back rested on the chair. She then sat on the bed opposite him.

  Until now, Iqbal had not cared to look straight at her; now he had no other option but to face her. If he did not look at her, he ran the risk of revealing to her his weakness.

  “Am I not beautiful?”

  “You are,” he admitted.

  “Am I not young?”

  “But of course.”

  “What would be my age?”

  “Seventeen?”

  “Right,” she said. “Yet you are ignoring me?”

  Iqbal wondered what was wrong with her.

  “I’m not accustomed to staring at the opposite sex.”

  “If one doesn’t look at a beautiful girl, then it’s construed as an insult to her beauty.”

  “My religion doesn’t say so.”

  “What does it say?”

  “One should lower one’s eyes before women.”

  “I’m not a woman. I’m a girl.”

  “What do you want?” He asked directly.

  “I want to talk to you for a few minutes like a friend.”

  Iqbal could not believe her.

  “What had you thought?” Kiran asked smiling mischievously again.

  He was caught in a bind. This girl was not as naïve as he had thought during their first meeting. On the contrary, she was smart. She was worth cultivating as a friend. “What do you think I’d have thought?” He posed a counter question to wriggle out of the trap.

  Kiran laughed. Her white teeth sparkled from behind the lipstick-coloured lips. “Iqbal!” She addressed him by his name, “What do you want to hear? The truth or a lie?”

  “Whichever suits you.”

  “You had thought the same as other men think about me.” she said, adding, “You thought that I would take advantage of the situation to tempt you into bed. Right?”

  Iqbal conceded the charge.

/>   “But, you forgot one thing: It costs Rs.2500 to spend a night with me.”

  “Why?”

  “What?” Now, it was her turn to be surprised.

  “What was the need for you to pick this profession?”

  “What if I ask you the same question?”

  Iqbal was stunned.

  Kiran was selling her body under some compulsions! Iqbal was involved in trafficking. What was his compulsion? Until now, he had saved about five lakh rupees. What was his excuse now? He was a delivery boy. He wanted to be in the shoes of his boss. Why? Because the profession of smuggling, the dream of that elusive land of milk and honey carpeted with rose petals, had become his blood and was running in his veins. It had become contagious and had spread in his body.

  He got up.

  Kiran realised that what she had said had pierced deep into Iqbal's heart. His conscience was shaken. She did not stop him. When he opened the door to step out, Singh stood in front of him like a wall. It was not possible for him to jump over the ‘wall’ and flee; it was difficult to pull it down and escape.

  Singh put his hand around his neck and brought him back to the room. Kiran got up from the double bed and returned with a bottle of whiskey she had retrieved from the cupboard.