by Aabid Surti
“Two and a half crores.”
“Tell your puppies to pull out this bag and put it in my jeep.”
“I’ll take out two jackets for you.”
Iqbal tried to proceed. Bhesadia stopped him, “Didn’t you follow what I said?”
“But, Sir...”
“Pull out the bag and keep it in my jeep.”
“It's worth two and a half crore,” he said briskly, “You won't be able to digest it alone.”
“You aren’t wrong. My tummy is too small; but, you know very well that our government's belly is giant sized.”
“What will you gain by seizing the consignment?”
“I’m on duty here.”
“That's why you are entitled to two jackets. Two jackets mean two hundred gold biscuits, you know that.”
“What do you think I am?” Suddenly he slapped Iqbal. “Do you take all to be racketeers like you?”
Iqbal was stunned. He had been hit hard. His face had turned red. His ears reverberated. His eyes had turned blood shot. His cronies, standing behind at a distance, were staring bewildered.
“Put the bag in my jeep!” This time Bhesadia bellowed.
“Sir!” Iqbal was fingering his cheeks. So far he had done his best in every possible way he could to make amends. “I also know how to use muscle power.”
A blow landed just below his ear with the speed of lightning. He whirled and fell on the car's bonnet. His jaw was shaken. Never before had he been hit so hard.
“You bloody bastard!” The words whipped him from behind adding salt to injury. “You’re threatening me! Don't you know who I am? I can skin you alive right here and make shoes out of your hide.”
Slowly he got up and turned towards Bhesadia. His head was splitting with pain. The stars were circling in his eyes. He had come across this facet of his guru for the first time. How did it happen? Where was the good old Bhesadia he knew?
He batted his eyes and saw a revolver. Bhesadia stood pointing its barrel at him. He now glanced at his colleagues. All eyes were on him.
“Sir!” He made a last ditch attempt at conciliation. A drop of blood from his smashed lips fell on his white shirt. “I don't believe in violence. If two jackets aren’t enough, please take one more.”
“If you utter one more word, I’ll blow your brains out,” he warned giving a final order, “Take out the bag!”
Wiping his lips, Iqbal looked at Dagdu standing behind Bhesadia. He leaped like a panther. Before the inspector could realise what was happening, his neck was in Dagdu's grip and a knife touched his throat. Just a signal from Iqbal and Dagdu would slit it.
Within a flash, the tables had turned. Bhesadia froze. Iqbal took two steps forward and snatched the revolver. He then turned towards his colleagues. “Close the boot.”
Michael dashed to obey the order.
“I won't pardon you!” Bhesadia yelled, recovering from the shock. “I won't leave you alive. I’ll wipe out your entire family.”
Ignoring his words, Iqbal shot another order. Michael and half of his gang sat in the second car. The driver started the engine, backed away a little from the first car, and drove away fast. Bhesadia stared wide-eyed.
“Dagdu!” Placing the barrel of the revolver on Bhesadia's temple, Iqbal said, “Hurry up, scram…all of you too.”
“What about you, Boss?”
“That’s Mr. Bhesadia's concern, not yours.” He smiled and added condescendingly, “It’s not fair that he should return empty handed. I’m going with him to the police station.” Dagdu could not comprehend anything. For a moment, he stared at him like a joker. It was his duty to obey the boss's order. He pulled back the knife from Bhesadia's neck.
Shortly, the second Ambassador car too left, raising dust. Now, only two souls stood on the deserted road facing each other. One of them was guru and the other was the disciple. However, it was difficult to discern now which was which….
After both the cars were no more visible, Iqbal removed his finger from the trigger and offering the gun said, “Sir, your revolver!” Bhesadia nearly snatched it and put it back in the holster. Before he could explode, Iqbal announced, “You can legally arrest me and take me to the police station.”
“Did you think that I’ll let you go scot-free?” Bhesadia caught hold of his hair and dragged him to the jeep. “You son of a bitch! You pointed my own gun at me.” Kicking Iqbal in the back, he made him climb into the jeep first. “Now you’ll see how I break your bones and ribs in the lock-up.” He then sat in the driver's seat.
The jeep started and dashed for the nearest police station. Iqbal sat quietly. He knew that Bhesadia was seething in anger. Moreover, when a person’s BP shoots up, he loses his equilibrium too and can’t think rationally.
Reality would dawn on Bhesadia once his temper cooled down. Though he was likely to deliver a couple of blows more just to satisfy his ego. Iqbal was prepared for that too. He was thick-skinned. Stoic too.
When the jeep stopped in the police station compound, Bhesadia again tried to hold him by his hair. “Sir!” Iqbal, blocking his hand pleaded, “please…be courteous, at least till my guilt isn’t proved.”
“You first get down!”
“Sir, I’ve volunteered to come.” He reminded him, getting out of the jeep.
Bhesadia caught him by the wrist and presented him before duty officer Ratnakar who looked amazed. He was not familiar with Bhesadia because he did not belong to Bombay. Still, the face looked familiar.
To begin with, Bhesadia gave his own brief introduction. Ratnakar recalled – he had seen this face in newspapers in connection with gold smuggling. The report praised this crime branch official to no end.
“Sir!” Indicating a chair, Ratnakar asked, “What can I do for you?”
He did not sit. “Write down the FIR and put this swine behind bars.”
“Go ahead, Sir,” he said picking up the pen.
“Name – Iqbal Rupani. First offence – trafficking gold worth two and a half crore into Bombay.”
Taking a seat, Iqbal interrupted, “Proof?”
“Shut up!” He thundered and continued, “The second offence – Obstructing an officer from performing his duty by placing a knife at his throat.”
“Who put the knife, Sir?”
Deputy Ratnakar forgot to write the FIR and gazed steadily at them.
“The third offence – He snatched my revolver and pointed it at me.”
Iqbal kept quiet.
“The fourth offence: He tried to bribe me.” Turning to the deputy, he asked, “have you noted down?”
Ratnakar had written just the name, nothing else. “I’m listening, Sir.” Saying which, he pushed a chair with his leg for Bhesadia to sit. It was a diligent action that went unnoticed.
Now Iqbal started addressing the duty officer, “Sir, all these charges are baseless. I’m innocent. Ask Mr Bhesadia, if I’ve smuggled gold worth two and a half crores into Bombay, where is it? If I had placed a knife on his neck, where is that knife? If I had his revolver, would he have been able to arrest me? Despite this, if you don't believe me, you are free to lock me up. But before that, as a citizen I’m entitled to use my rights.”
Hanging onto his every word, Ratnakar was listening patiently.
Iqbal concluded emphatically, “I want to talk to my lawyer.”
Looking at Bhesadia, Ratnakar asked, “Do you have anything to say, Sir?”
He just stared, his face veiled in melancholy, his eyes full of emptiness and a barren wall in front of him, the wall of ground reality.
“Mr. Bhesadia!” With due respect Ratnakar declared, “you are my senior, much more experienced than me. You must know that the words of a cop alone don’t carry any weight in a police case. Sorry, without any evidence, I can neither take your FIR nor put this young man behind bars.”
By now, Bhesadia had realized his foolishness. He had blundered in judging Iqbal. Just as a son is immature in the eyes of his father, Iqbal was a kid in the eyes o
f Bhesadia. He had first met Iqbal when he was studying in school. He had turned up at Bhesadia's office door dressed in a half-sleeved shirt tucked into baggy shorts.
That image of Iqbal with a toothy smile had evaporated today. A new boundary was drawn between guru and disciple. As if the disciple had toppled the guru and taken over his position.
Realising this stark reality, Bhesadia swallowed the bitter truth. His back slackened, his shoulders fell. Once again, he looked at deputy Ratnakar, threw a glance at Iqbal, and walked out of the police station like a fallen soldier.
As Iqbal was about to get up, Ratnakar indicated to him him to be seated and informedhim, “You have a message.”
“A message? For me?” He was perplexed. “That’s not possible. Nobody knows that I’m here.”
“Not even your men?”
“What men?” Pretending innocence, he added, “Sir, I’m just a student.”
Ratnakar continued with a smile, “They must have guessed that since Bhesadia had arrested you from my section, he would have brought you here.”
His game was over. Ratnakar knew much more about him than he had expected. “Who has sent the message?” he asked softly.
“DK has asked you to call him up.”
Iqbal stared at him in disbelief.
Chapter 22
Iqbal’s first meeting with DK materialised in his apartment. Singh accompanied him. The three of them were seated on the drawing room sofas like the three points of a triangle. Iqbal was bang opposite DK. There was a center-table in the middle.
Iqbal was trying hard to suppress the desire to laugh aloud. His tragedy was similar to mine. One day, Iqbal had asked me, “Who is a smuggler?” The deadly faces of the villains of Hindi cinema had paraded before my eyes one after the other.
Iqbal had had a somewhat similar illusion about DK. The man dealt in crores of rupees. He had connections right from the CM down to members of the municipal corporation. High court judges down to the inspector general of police, officers from the rank of customs collector down to the lowest rung felt proud to remain present at the parties thrown by him. In fact, he was like a puppeteer who pulled the strings of the state government. What did he look like?
Hitler?
Rasputin?
Kublai Khan?
Instead, the person sitting across Iqbal was an ordinary looking Gujarati, attired in kurta-pyjamas. He had an oval face, broad nose, short neck, heavy build and a height of about five feet six inches. It was for this reason that his body did not appear obese. Moreover, Iqbal was familiar with this face. Of course, there was nothing special about it. If he mixed in a crowd wearing kurta-pyjamas, no one would care to give him a second look.
Perhaps, Iqbal's attention would also not have been drawn towards him had he not seen him more than once at Gaylords restaurant, sitting alone before a cold cup of tea and smoking a cigarette.
The last time when he had gone to meet Singh there, he had seen him waiting for someone. It was during that meeting that DK had gotten up once to ask for a light from Singh.
Iqbal had not suspected him then. If a stranger asks for a matchbox from a person sitting nearby, to light a cigarette or a bidi, it does not establish a relationship between the two. Singh had clicked the lighter and DK had thanked him and gone back to his seat, as if he had nothing to do with Singh.
Now, Iqbal perceived the reason for this behavior. Not to speak more than required in a public place is the first rule of the underworld. The second rule is not to make a formal introduction only for the sake of formality. Though sitting next to Singh, he had not introduced Iqbal to DK.
Sufi follows this rule even today. If I am chatting with him and any of his former colleagues visits him for help in times of economic or other crisis, Sufi neither introduces me to them nor cares to introduce them to me.
Recently, in 1989, an Indian prisoner, who had escaped from a jail in Holland, had met Sufi in Bombay. He was a six-feet-tall; broad shouldered, fair skinned and well built man in a terylene bush shirt and trousers. He looked like a modern young tycoon to me.
At the time, Sufi and I were sitting on his open terrace discussing the present episode about his first meeting with DK. Sufi did not feel it necessary to introduce us. However, after the absconding prisoner left, he said tersely, “The guy was caught in drugs. Our cops can’t arrest him legally. But, they can harass him for money. He is frightened.”
Though this was their first formal introduction, DK knew everything about Iqbal. Singh used to brief him from time to time on every minute detail. He knew that Iqbal was a man with amazing abilities and had joined the gang on inspector Bhesadia's recommendation.
Firstly, he had opened his account by escaping from the Sagar Darshan building with two jackets. He was compelled to gift one to Bhesadia; but in the latest confrontation, he had made his guru eat dust.
He was also aware of every suggestion made by Iqbal between these two adventures about the changes required in the age-old method of smuggling. Today, for the first time, they were sitting face to face. The formal introductions were over in this fourth floor, sea-facing lavish house on Marine Drive. The sun was about to set. Dashes of orange and violet filled the sky.
DK's wife, with flabby body and languorous face, came with a coffee tray, placed it on the transparent center-table and went back. Iqbal was not given to drinking excessive tea or coffee, but since DK himself picked up a cup and offered it to him, he thanked him with his eyes and accepted it. Singh took the other cup.
While taking the first sip, DK turned towards Singh and asked, “Have you brought the Colaba apartment key?”
Singh put down the cup, took out the key from his pocket and offered it to Iqbal. He did not accept it because he did not understand what was happening. He looked at the boss.
“That apartment is yours to stay in.”
Singh placed the key on the center-table and slid it across to him. Iqbal spoke little. He looked at the key and then at DK sitting across him.
“You live at Dongri, right?”
He nodded.
“In a single room?”
“Yes.”
“The Colaba house has two bed rooms with a spacious hall.” DK said adding, “and is fully furnished. You won't have any problem even if you occupy it now.”
Iqbal remembered the luxurious apartment of Sagar Darshan building. There were more than a dozen such dwellings in Bombay in DK's possession, but under different names. They were used for meetings and storing contraband goods.
Iqbal had an urge to return the key. He could not stay with his mother and two brothers in a place that may be used in the future for illicit business. However, returning the key would have meant insulting DK. He did not want to commit the foolishness of offending the boss in the very first meeting. He could return the key after a couple of days with some excuse.
He put down the empty coffee cup and picked up the key from the glass top of the center-table. Now another question popped up – Why was he being gifted with such a royal apartment? He had just made a beginning in the gang. He had moved from being a carrier to the crossing.
He had yet to take the full plunge into gold trafficking. Who sends the smuggled gold to India? At what rate? Who is that gold merchant? How is foreign exchange transacted? Besides, in India, who are the industrialists who buy it? How many of them are active? Where are they located?
Iqbal had started his career in smuggling by selling one or two jackets given to him by Bhesadia. Here, gold worth crores of rupees landed every month. Where did it disappear?
He was not familiar with all these 'contacts'. In short, in the vast ocean of smuggling, Iqbal was just a small fry. When someone gifted this small fish a blue lake, questions were bound to arise.
After some contemplation, he realised that by offering an apartment, DK had not done him a great favour. The gang had earned profits worth lakhs of rupees through him. For example, though he had been told to throw away two jackets, he had managed to retriev
e at least one and hand it over to Singh.
One jacket meant one hundred gold biscuits whose cost equalled one-lakh eighty thousand rupees. In the sixties, that was a colossal amount. Lastly, he had outwitted Bhesadia and managed to deliver gold worth over two and half crore.
The furnished Colaba flat gifted to him was worth not more than ten lakh rupees. In a business with a turnover of crores of rupees, a sum of ten lakh was insignificant. DK had done his homework well before bestowing him the gift.
He also noted another point on seeing the boss. Till now, he had been under the impression that only Muslims dominated the business of bootlegging. This impression was utterly wrong.
“Sufi!” I grabbed the opportunity to ask him a few questions on this issue. “There is a general impression in the minds of common readers that smuggling and Muslims are synonymous – why?”
“Because of the media,” he declared asserting his point. “Propaganda. The newspapers have only focused on the pygmies involved in the business and not touched the giants.”
“Why?”
“There is more than one reason. One could be that those godfathers sitting at the top don’t want the glare of publicity on them.”