by Aabid Surti
Singh sat on the double bed, reclining on a pillow. He was silent till now. His clean, square face was a bit serious. He was tense about something and it was visible in his cold blue eyes.
Iqbal sat on the sofa on his left side. Coming between them, Kiran lifted the intercom and placed an order for ice-cubes and snacks. As she walked up to the window and stood, the cacophony of traffic noise and other outside sounds attacked the senses, the sea waves were breaking on the tetra pods near the paraper.
Soon, a waiter brought a glass with ice-cubes, glasses of water and a bowl containing pistachio in a tray. First Singh prepared a peg and downed it in one straight gulp. As if it instilled life in his body, he looked at Iqbal and smiled.
“Now, tell me,” he said preparing the second peg, “What do you want to hear first? The good news or the bad news?”
Iqbal's mind was still in turmoil. Kiran's words were still reverberating in his ears. His father, Hussain Ali had given up smuggling after making about Rs.3,00,000. At the moment, he too was thinking along those lines.
If he so desired, he could earn enough interest from the five lakh rupees he had saved to take care of the household expenses and meet the cost of his college education as well without any hassle. What was the need for him to go deeper into the quicksand now?
“Iqbal!” Singh exclaimed, surprised to see him lost. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Did that slut say anything?”
On hearing herself referred to in such an uncomplimentary way, Kiran turned and Singh looked at her questioningly. She just shrugged her shoulders and turned her back to look out of the window.
Taking the first sip from the second peg, Singh addressed Iqbal, “OK, let me first give you the good news. Your spirit will lift and touch the sky.”
Iqbal stared at him.
“Starting next month, you’ll be going for the ‘crossing’,” he announced pompously.
Chapter 14
Iqbal's desire to make progress in the field of bootlegging had borne fruit. He was to leave the work of a delivery boy and enter the world of ‘crossing’, leave the first rung to climb the next. Now his territory would be the sea instead of land.
He thought for a while and asked Singh, “How come the boss suddenly became so benevolent?”
“Because your stars are bright,” He replied, expressing wonder. “Else there are so many kids like you who just waste away as delivery boys.”
Iqbal still could not grasp the reason. His sixth sense was telling him that something was amiss somewhere.
“Now the bad news,” Singh continued, finishing his second peg. “Last week, one of our launches was seized by the customs.”
“What was the value of the consignment?”
“Two crores.”
The computer in Iqbal's brain started working: The launch had left the shore and gone past the lighthouse into the sea up to forty bams for crossing. There it had picked up the consignment in mid-sea from the Dubai ship and while returning had been intercepted by the customs’ motorboat.
“How many of our boys got caught?”
“There were eight,” Singh gave the details, “seven jumped into the sea and escaped; only one held his ground.”
“Why?”
“You must have heard about the captain going down with his ship!” Singh said sarcastically. “Hamid Bhadak was the captain. He had been going with the team for crossing since years.”
Now, the scenario became clear. Hamid's place had fallen vacant. Iqbal had all the attributes to take his place.
“I thought we have customs officials on our payroll!”
“Absolutely right.”
“Then...?”
“This operation was carried out by the marine guards.”
The naval ships keep a constant watch over the country's sea frontiers. Whenever the captain of the ship spots smugglers in the sea, he alerts the coast guards through wireless and then it becomes imperative for the customs to raid.
Sometimes, the navy too arrests sea pirates and hands them over to the customs. This is what had happened with Singh's launch. The step was taken immediately after the collector was informed by a phone call.
After a while, Iqbal asked, “What will happen to Hamid?”
“He will be hanged.”
“I can’t believe it,” Iqbal intervened. “Leave aside a sentence, I haven’t heard nor read that a person involved in trafficking has ever been hanged.”
Singh explained, “You aren’t wrong. Hamid stabbed a customs official who died on the spot.”
“But why?”
“They had some altercations. As it is, Hamid is short tempered. He could not control himself.”
Normally if a member of the gang is arrested, one of the best lawyers is engaged to free him. Had not Hamid committed this stupid act, he too would have come out on bail within twenty-four hours and resumed work. Of course, the confiscated goods could not be recovered.
Iqbal was thinking fast. His thoughts were getting muddy again. There was a fork ahead of him: One path was full of adventure, the other was dull and drab. One had thrill and romance while the other prophesied a mundane life. There was a challenge at every step on the crooked road while the straight road was flat.
Willingly, he opted for the adventurous freeway because he had knowingly or unknowingly ignored the road of the saints and adopted the road that God did not approve of.
Hussain Ali too had considered the same truth but decided to follow the path of divinity, the path that the God liked. Of course, at that time Hussain Ali's age had been more than forty-five and he had been much more mature. He had learned much in life from experience.
Iqbal was still to gain that experience. He had just crossed the age of twenty. He had youth, enthusiasm and vigour. His heart was craving to do something daring, something unimaginable. He could not give up the opportunity of going for crossing, going to the sea. He had experienced the thrill once already.
He thought over it calmly and estimated the risk involved in the new venture. What he considered an adventure involved the risk of losing one’s life and also the occasional possibility of being robbed in mid-sea.
Those were the initial days of gold smuggling and were really difficult. The Arab launches carrying jackets of gold from Dubai were at times robbed by pirates or by the coast guards, that is, the customs officials. Instead of seizing the goods, they would loot them and sink the launch. Still, the decade of the sixties can be described as the golden period of gold smuggling. This was because a whopping amount of Rs. 300 to 400 crores in black money was transacted during this decade.
I stopped him at this point to seek certain clarifications. “Sufi, I still haven't understood the exact meaning of smuggling.”
“We have discussed this issue in detail,” he reminded me.
“If smuggling means not to pay duty on the import or export of goods, which section of the law is a case of smuggling tried under?” I asked. “If, for example, a trafficker is caught with gold, can he not be freed after paying the customs duty?”
“Aabidbhai…” He said sarcastically, “If this could be settled so easily, how would lawyers earn their bread and magistrates live in luxury?”
He explained to me in detail: To date, several court judgments have used the word ‘smuggling’ but they have failed to define it. If the government catches a smuggler even today he is charged under sections 165 (1A) and 165 (1B) of the Customs Act. (Which prohibits the possession of contraband goods and not paying customs duty on the import and export of goods.)
If there is more than one person involved, they are charged under section 120 (B) of the Indian Penal Code instead of the above act. This amounts to two or more persons indulging in criminal conspiracy.
Criminal conspiracy has been clearly defined in a judgment during the British rule. On page number 259 of the Privy Council's judgments, the judge had noted in the case of Mirza Akbar that “The conspiracy comes to an end aft
er the goods are confiscated.”
The same judgment of the Privy Council was cited in the case, of the disappearance of the cans of the film 'Kissa Kursi Ka', in which Sanjay Gandhi was charged with criminal conspiracy. Following the recovery of the cans from a godown, Sanjay Gandhi was absolved of the charges and set free.
In short, the law related to criminal conspiracy is as weak as the law related to smuggling. Hence, it is not surprising that the law is unable to cause any harm to the traffickers.
When Iqbal returned home after taking his leave of Singh, he was proud to see his younger brother sitting in a corner of the room completing his homework. Firoze had the same zeal for studies as he had. The confidence of going to college on the basis of good marks in the high school examinations was visible on his face.
But what about Razzak? The youngest had still not returned home. Iqbal looked at the clock. It was 9 o' clock in the night. He looked at his mother. Gul Banu was busy preparing dinner.
“Where’s Razzak?” he asked.
“Must be loafing around with friends,” she answered without looking at him.
“You should make him study!”
“If he only listened to me!!”
Iqbal changed into a vest and pajamas and sat cross-legged in the kitchenette to have his dinner. With each morsel, he thought of his youngest brother. For the time being, his entire attention was focused on Razzak.
He had cajoled and threatened Razzak but this had had no effect on him. On the contrary, he was going from bad to worse day by day. Sometimes, he would come home after thrashing someone and at other times with a black eye himself.
“Did he come home after school?” Iqbal asked again.
Before Gul Banu could answer, Firoze stuffed his books in the bag and replied, “He slipped away to play after tea.” A while later, he added, “Bhaijaan, he is neither interested in studies nor in school. I told him to do his homework with me, but he rudely refused.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t want to be a barrister.”
“What does he want to become?”
“The don of Dongri.”
Iqbal was shocked. “Did he say that?”
“No, but he utters such words while playing in the street.”
Iqbal realised that the situation had gone out of control. Razzak was beyond redemption. Words had no effect on him. After finishing dinner, Iqbal washed his hands and removed a cane from behind the cupboard.
Gul Banu looked at him from the corners of her eyes. “Will you punish him?” Appalled at the thought, she put away the soiled utensils in the corner of the kitchenette.
“I’ll flog him mercilessly to make him realise his failings.”
“Had you realised yours?”
“What?”
“Your father used to thrash you. Did that stop you?” she asked standing before him.
Iqbal had to think afresh. His father used to cane him mercilessly whenever he came home after beating somebody. The next day, he used to hunt down the complainant boy and take revenge. Could all that spill over in Razzak’s life?
He threw away the cane. Gul Banu picked it up and hid it behind the cupboard. Iqbal realized that it was only natural that his mother should pamper Razzak the most, him being the youngest.
Razzak appeared on the threshold exactly at ten thirty in the night. Both his hands were behind his back and his shifty eyes were looking for a way out. He had not expected Iqbal to be waiting for him!
Slowly, he started backing out. He was about to escape when Iqbal leaped and caught him by his neck. “What’re you hiding behind?” Iqbal asked, dragging him inside the room. He kept quiet. Firoze quietly looked at him from near the window. Gul Banu also thought it wise to remain quiet.
“Show me! What are you holding in your hands?” This time Iqbal thundered.
“I won’t.” Razzak retorted.
Unwillingly, Iqbal raised his hand and slapped Razzak so hard that it left the imprint of five fingers on his face. Razzak hit the wall swirling and collapsed. The three plates of bone china he held tightly also fell down and were broken into pieces.
Iqbal gazed wide-eyed. It did not take him much time to see that these were stolen plates. He lifted Razzak by his wrist and gave him two more slaps. “From where did you steal these plates?”
Razzak replied with equally raised voice, “I’ve not stolen them.”
“From where did you get them?”
“There was a goods truck parked in the lane. All the boys were removing plates from it, so I too pulled out three of them.”
“Didn’t you feel ashamed?” He lifted his hand to strike again, but Gul Banu stepped forward and held his hand.
“Enough, that’s enough. You want to kill my boy?” She yelled pulling Razzak away.
“Maa…” he said turning towards the mother, “If you don't teach him a lesson now, you will be digging your own grave.”
That night Iqbal could not sleep peacefully. He writhed in pain until late into the night. He did not want his brothers to take up the path he had chosen. On the contrary, his innermost desire was that both his younger brothers pursue their studies, join college, and progress in life. If they wanted to go abroad for higher studies, the road was clear. They should secure good jobs, get married to charming girls and lead a happy family life.
(Hussain Ali had had similar dreams for Sufi.)
Iqbal was lying on the bed. He had taken his father's place. Both the brothers had made their beds on the floor and were sleeping by their mother's side. He gazed at Razzak steadily till sleep overcame him.
When he got up in the morning, both the brothers were getting ready for school. It was half past nine. He was surprised. He had never slept till so late. He always used to get up before the muezzin called the faithful for the morning prayers. After brushing his teeth, he used to offer namaaz at the mosque. Today, there had been a break in the routine.
He smiled at Razzak and beckoned to him to come close. He wanted to affectionately hug him and apologise to parry more bitterness. He wanted to talk to him warmly for a few minutes to forget last night's episode.
Razzak shifted the school bag from his shoulder onto his back and moved towards him. But suddenly he turned, and left by the door. Firoze was waiting for him on the stairs. Both brothers climbed down together.
Iqbal was not offended. The young one was naïve, still angry. Everything will be forgotten in a day or two and Razzak will be his usual self. He will become a worthy student once again.
Even while reassuring himself repeatedly, why was he feeling uneasy within? Why wasn’t he able to believe his own words? Was he deceiving himself?
Perplexed and confused, he reached the college and glanced at Sharad from a distance. He was waiting for Iqbal, with his gang, by the side of his car.
Iqbal became cautious but did not hesitate. Stopping would have meant weakness. Turning his back would have meant cowardice. He was not a coward. Kusum collapsing on him unconscious was not his fault. Lifting Kusum in his arms and taking her to the staff room under the instruction of the lecturer was not a crime. Then why should he be afraid?
He came straight into the blockade and nonchalantly held Sharad by his neck. “If you think I’ll be frightened by your five puppies, then you are greatly mistaken.”
Sharad was stunned. He could barely utter a few words: “But…but, we hang around here… just like that.”
“I tell you once again,” Iqbal said firmly releasing his neck, “I’m neither interested in your girl nor in any other. If you ever try to finger me again, I’ll break your bones along with your car – get it?”
“Buddy, you are getting upset for no reason.”
“Were you not waiting to catch me off-guard?”
“Not at all!” Sharad had gauged the situation shrewdly and decided against it. “On the contrary, we wanted to invite you to my birthday party.”
Iqbal knew that he was lying. His offensive had turned the tables. Shar
ad was extending the hand of friendship. Iqbal accepted the invitation.
The lecture had already started in the classroom. Iqbal quietly sat in his place. Kusum's seat was besides him. She glanced sidelong at him. Iqbal's entire attention was on the lecture. This year of intermediate was indeed important for him. If he got good marks, he would get admission into medical college. It was not just important to get through the examinations but get distinction as well. It was towards this end he attended 'Bhola Classes' in the evenings.
After having her lunch in the canteen, Kusum came to the backstage of the theatre adjoining Bhavan's college looking for Iqbal. He was offering namaaz at the time behind the wing. She watched him quietly. The theatre was empty. There was a dim bulb burning in the wing. Under the pale light, Iqbal's figure resembled that of a shadow puppet. At times, he stood erect with both his hands extended to seek blessings and at times placed his hands on the knees and bent forward.
After the namaaz, he folded the mat and sat there quietly for his last prayers. Kusum advanced slowly and came close. He signed to her to keep quiet, finished his prayers and stood up.