Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  “Sir...” he interrupted.

  “My name is Rahim Khan Pathan,” he said, “how old are you?”

  “I’m twenty two running.”

  “I’m like your father, yet you may address me as Khan.”

  “Mr. Khan!” Iqbal now had the chance to complete his sentence, “I’ve still not been able to figure out why I’m here!”

  Khan sized him up from top to bottom and then stared straight into his face. For the first time he realized that the kid sitting before him was not a soft kernel but a hard nut.

  Instead of replying, he changed the topic. “You said you are a student, right?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Which college?”

  “Bhavan's.”

  “What are its timings?”

  “Normal. From nine to four in the evening.”

  “What’s your attendance?”

  “I go almost daily. Only today...”

  “Forget about today.”

  “ I attend regularly.”

  “Last year, you were absent for forty five days.”

  Iqbal felt a knot in his stomach. If this was correct, it meant that the customs officials had been investigating him for the past many days. Otherwise, how did this officer arrive at the exact figure which even he did not know?

  “Sir, it seems there is some mistake,” he said coolly with a blank expression trying to look for a way out of this verbal trap.

  “Mistake!” Khan's face started assuming a hardened look. Stamping his feet, he went behind the chair and addressed himself to Iqbal’s back, “Is your college attendance register wrong?”

  “I didn’t say that, Sir,” Iqbal replied without looking back.

  “Then tell me, where were you on those days; otherwise I can read out your each day's account from my file.”

  Iqbal's legs started shaking. This was his first experience of interrogation. He had not expected that he would be attacked with the backing of statistics and evidence. Still, he did not lose courage. One of Singh's bits of advice was etched strongly into his mind. Singh had warned him over the phone – They will threaten you, scare you and use all kinds of lies; but don't you confess anything.

  “Please read them out, Sir!”

  “What?”

  “My each day's account,” he replied, the tone, precisely sober. “Let me also know what I did during forty five days of absence!”

  Khan's brown eyes revealed what was going on in his mind. It was like a rat running away from the trap after smelling the cheese. In fact, he was unaware of Iqbal’s activities. He had only obtained two names, that of Iqbal's and Singh's, from the owner of the godown.

  That was enough for him. He was capable of extricating other details. He had made just one move. If Iqbal were involved in trafficking then surely there would be a shortfall in his college attendance, Khan had guessed. That's why he had thrown a bumper ball; but Iqbal had hit a six. Thanks to Iqbal’s defiant stand, he had only ended up in a trap himself.

  “Iqbal!” said Khan, his voice dipped in honey. Steadily he took a few steps and came before him, “I’m not your enemy, but your friend, a well wisher. If you tell the truth, rest assured you will receive our full co-operation.”

  Iqbal became certain that so far Khan had been bluffing. If he really had the statistics and evidence, he would not have become soft like butter and talked like a comrade.

  “Sir, I’m telling you nothing but the truth.”

  “What?”

  “I was indeed absent for a few days from the college.”

  “Be precise, how many days?”

  “I’ve not kept count.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Rest.”

  “Rest?”

  “Bed-rest on doctor's advice.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m an asthma patient, Sir.”

  Iqbal had had asthma a few years earlier and he had been using it as an excuse to date. He had used the same pretext to remain absent from college. “Whenever I get an attack, I’m forced to take complete rest,” he added.

  “Hmm...” Khan again started pacing. He realised that this cookie was not going to crumble so easily. “Tell me, how many members do you have in your family?”

  This time, Khan was talking while pacing around the chair on which Iqbal sat.

  “Four, including me, Sir.”

  “Who are the remaining three?”

  “My mother and two brothers.”

  “Brothers are older or younger?”

  “Younger.”

  “They must be studying, right?”

  This time Iqbal was able to guess Khan's design before he could make his next move. Anticipating the next question, he replied, “One is studying in high school while the other is in service.” Again, Khan got knocked off. Had Iqbal said that both his brothers went to school, he would have definitely asked – where does the money to run the kitchen come from?

  His line of questioning having misfired, his frustration became evident on his face; but at the time he was standing behind Iqbal.

  “Where does he work?”

  “In a footwear shop.”

  This very morning Iqbal had decided to terminate Razzak’s education and set him up in a footwear shop. His neighbour, on whose phone he received his calls, was the owner of a shoe shop.

  “Where’s the shop?”

  “It’s near Pydhonie in Jambli Mohalla.”

  “What's his salary?”

  “Eight hundred rupees, Sir.”

  “So…the younger brother slogs and the elder brother has fun in college!” Khan slowly stepped forward. Then went behind him once again, asking. “From which Hindi film did you pluck this idea?”

  “I don't watch films, Sir.”

  “Then where did you get this story from?”

  “This is not a story, it's my life, my misfortune, my tragedy.”

  “Really?”

  “Many a time I feel like quitting college and taking up a job; but then I won't be able to fulfill my father's dream.” Iqbal’s lips quivered and he looked as if he was on the brink of tears. “Sir, before his death, my father held my hand and extracted a promise from me, when I grow up I’m to become a doctor. Now you tell me, can I quit college?”

  “Of course not,” he affirmed and came in front of Iqbal. Standing with both his hands inside the pockets of his safari suit, he humbly requested, “But you may quit telling these lies.”

  “Lies?”

  “We both know that whatever you are saying is far from the truth. Iqbal, this hair didn’t turn gray in the sun. There is still time, speak out, young man.”

  He coolly asked, “Sir, will you please tell me why you don't believe my words?”

  “Because your mouth smells foul.”

  “Not possible, Sir!” He cracked a joke seriously, “I use Binaca toothpaste.”

  “Shut up!” Khan shouted.

  Both stared at each other. Iqbal had the expression of a surprised child while Khan's eyes were blood shot. He was not a fool. He could see through Iqbal's mask; but he was unable to break it. All the same, he was confident that sooner or later he would be successful in his endeavor. He looked at his wristwatch and without uttering a word, opened the door and walked out. Iqbal remained seated on the chair. As he was wondering where Khan had suddenly disappeared, a peon brought some sandwiches and a cup of coffee for him.

  It was only then he realized that it was lunchtime. The duel would start again after lunch. The game of cat and mouse would begin once again. He was unable to guess for how many more hours it would continue. He had some satisfaction; the game was quite interesting.

  He sipped the coffee and took a bite of the sandwich, his thoughts naturally turning to Singh. Where was he? Both had received summons from the DRI this morning. Both were asked to present themselves at eleven o' clock. Was Singh too being interrogated in one of the adjoining rooms?

  Khan entered the room at half past two in the afternoon and began
afresh with a smile, “Did you relish the sandwich?”

  “Of course.”

  “At least for once, you told the truth.”

  Reacting to Khan's sarcastic remark, he retorted, “Sir, to tell you the truth, this was the only lie I’ve spoken so far.”

  “What?”

  “The sandwiches were like toilet paper,” saying which, he moved his feet revealing the cup and saucer kept under the chair. “You can see I’ve not eaten more than two bites.”

  Khan was nonplussed. He had not expected that this kid would take his wicket in the very first ball of the second inning. He came straight to the point. “The Tempo driver says that you had loaded the consignment onto his Tempo from Andheri.”

  “Which Tempo driver, Sir?” asked Iqbal instantly.

  Khan became so irritated that he felt like breaking all Iqbal’s teeth; but he had learnt not to break the law. Suppressing his frustration, he replied calmly, “The same driver who had brought the consignment from Andheri to the Mazgaon godown.”

  “But how am I concerned with him?”

  “He says it concerns you.”

  “That isn’t possible.” Iqbal was assertive after much careful thinking. “I’ve not been to Andheri in the last six months and you are saying that I’d loaded the consignment onto the Tempo! When, Sir?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Yesterday was Sunday. I spent all day at home. And if I was at home, how could I be in Andheri?”

  Khan again started circling him. “So, you’ll not give up your game!”

  “Sir!” Now Iqbal raised his voice. “I have honestly replied to all your questions. What is the meaning of involving me with a place I didn’t visit and with a Tempo driver whom I’ve never met?”

  “How did he know your name?”

  “There are countless people bearing the same name in this city.”

  “But you are the only Iqbal Rupani.”

  “That doesn’t prove that I’d loaded the consignment onto the Tempo!”

  “And if I prove it then?”

  “I’m ready to be hanged.” He boldly challenged for the second time loosening the knot of his tie a little more.

  He was confident. No one could harm him without proof. Charges can also be levied against the Prime Minister; but what is the meaning of such charges unless substantiated with evidence?

  (The customs officials were helpless in such cases; whereas the cops could put anyone behind bars by foisting trumped up charges.)

  Here a customs officer of the DRI was standing before Iqbal, not a police officer.

  “Who’s Singh?”

  The question that came from behind shook him slightly. There was now softness in his approach. “Which Singh are you referring to, Sir?”

  “How many Singhs do you know?”

  “Two.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They study with me in college.”

  “I’m not talking about students.”

  “I don't know any other Singh.”

  “But he knows you well.”

  “Maybe.”

  “May be?”

  “He may know me.”

  “And you don't know him?”

  “That's right.”

  “Is it that simple to make a fool out of me?”

  “Sir...”

  “He knows you but you don't know him?”

  “Millions of people know Dilip Kumar (a famous film star). That doesn’t mean that he knows all of them.”

  “You aren’t Dilip Kumar.”

  “I’ve nothing to do with your Singh.”

  “Are you sure?” Throwing this spanner with full confidence, he again came in front to face him.

  “Hundred and one per cent sure.”

  “Think again.”

  “There is nothing to think about.”

  “Don't you carry out jobs under him?”

  “How can I work under somebody I don't even know?”

  “Is it a lie that he had sent you on Saturday night for crossing?”

  “A total lie.”

  “Is it also a lie that you had landed the consignment on Uran Island?”

  Iqbal smiled, “I think you are looking for some other Iqbal…”

  “You had loaded the consignment onto the Tempo, come up to Andheri and...”

  “Sir!” He interrupted, “Please leave me alone, I’m really fed up.”

  “Is that so?” Khan looked at his watch and chuckled.

  Iqbal got perplexed. His computer brain started working at full speed. This much was certain – He had reached up to the jaws of an unknown trap. But, what was the trap? He could not make out. His master computer had failed him in a time of crisis.

  “Why so quiet now?”

  “To be frank, my brain is all screwed up.”

  “If you had brains, you would have cooperated, Iqbal. Anyway, that's your business. What can anyone do if a ten year sentence is writ on your forehead?” This time he went up to the roadside window, clasped his hands behind his back and resumed talking.

  “I gave you all the opportunities. But you turned them down by telling lie after lie. I really pity you. Believe me, I’ll not be happy sending an intelligent young man like you to prison. I regret...not only will your youth shrivel up, but your father's last wish will also go down the tube. Don't tell me then that I didn’t warn you.”

  He walked towards the door and paused after a few steps. “Do you feel like confessing even now? Or, should I get the report about your relation to Singh with photographs?”

  Before Iqbal could reply, the door opened. To his surprise, Khan's colleague Rustomji was standing at the threshold. Iqbal was familiar with his face. Both these officers were on duty at the serpentine barricade set up at Mahim. Both had come up to the godown hiding in the Tempo.

  “Singh has surrendered,” Rustomji said casually as if talking about the day's weather report.

  “Really!” Khan grinned looking at Iqbal. For the first time, he saw sweat on Iqbal's face and fear in his eyes.

  “Here is the confessional statement along with his signature,” Rustomji passed on four foolscap-typewritten pages to his colleague.

  Glancing through the papers, Khan commented, “Seems the ring leader's name is missing.”

  “Singh fears for the safety of his family if he reveals the name.”

  “How many members are there in his family?”

  “A wife and three children,” replied Rustomji, then added, “if we can assure him of their security, he is prepared to divulge that too.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What could I say? Providing security cover means posting security guards at his residence throughout his life. Moreover, the kids are small. They go to school. We would have to assume the responsibility of their security as well.”

  “Tell me,” said Khan glancing at Iqbal, who was intently listening to the conversation between the two officers, “What trick did you play that compelled Singh to spill the beans?”

  “I’d kept him under surveillance for the last two years,” Rustomji was saying. “He wants to maintain a 'Mr. Clean' image before his wife. I threatened him...if he won’t cooperate, I’ll hand over the file to his wife and expose him completely.”

  Khan used his wit, “As it is, men stand exposed before their wives.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Seems…” Rustomji remarked looking at Iqbal for the first time, “Your probing is still pending. Should I send in Singh?”

  “Is he still present?”

  “I’ve kept him waiting.”

  “Just a minute,” Khan said taking two steps and coming close to Iqbal. “Now tell me, do you admit your role in ‘crossing’ or should I call your boss to refresh your memory?”

  He was about to throw in the towel when his hunch came to his rescue. “Call him, Sir,” he replied gathering all his courage, and to loosen the tension he stretched his stiff legs and pulled them back. Rustomji left to call Singh.<
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  Iqbal was like a defeated gambler; and a loser always plays the last game with gusto. He too had done the same. He did not stand to forfeit anything. If Singh had admitted everything then he was bound to be locked up with him. What if he had not confessed to anything? His last hope was as thin as the fibre of a cobweb. He was still not prepared to accept his defeat. This was his nature.

  As soon as Rustomji entered the room accompanied by Singh, Khan asserted, “Here is your boss. Now, do you have to say anything?”

  Iqbal glanced at Rustomji and Singh. Singh had a deadpan look on his face. Iqbal turned to Khan and declared, “I don't know him.”

  “Rustomji!” Khan said, “Read out Singh's statement.”

  “My statement?” now Singh opened his mouth.

  “Shut up!” Rustomji shouted.

  “But how can you have my statement when I’ve not confessed to anything?”

  The cards were laid open. The game was over. Both the officers accepted their failure. Now there was no reason for them to keep the suspects under their custody.

  After some time, both saw from the window that Iqbal and Singh emerged from the building arm-in-arm, engaged a taxi and zipped off for Natraj Hotel to celebrate their victory.

  “Rustomji!” the wounded Khan said wryly: “My soul won’t rest in peace till I put these two goons behind bars for life.”

  Chapter 19

  Before heading for Sharad's birthday party on Friday evening, Iqbal met Singh at the Gaylord restaurant. (He was there every day between four and six in the evening.) “Iqbal!” He said, “I had a talk with DK about your fancy ideas on crossing.”