Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  “Me.” I quipped, though it was true.

  “You have been quietly shopping for the past few days, as if the world is blind! Tell me the truth, where are you going?”

  I had to fabricate a lie, “A friend of mine is getting married secretly. I’m required to be present there to sign as a witness...” my voice trailed off and I was silent.

  I do not know if my falsehood convinced her or not; but before saying anything more, she just stared at me for a few moments. “Don't you do that,” she warned finally. “Else, a road roller will run over my heart.”

  The shine on my face peeled off like the plaster on a wall. Until then, I had not thought about my mother who had brought me up grinding chillies and doing all sorts of neighbourhood work. It had never struck me that my secret marriage would shatter her dreams of seeing me decked in flowers and seated firmly on horseback with a sword.

  I was shaken to the core. There was the affection of my mother on one side and my love on the other. We were intimately and eternally entwined. My tragedy was that there was no way to return from where I stood.

  I left the house before ten in the morning. I had still to buy a gold ring, pick up Suraiyya from the girls' hostel and go to the registrar's office where our lawyer and two witnesses would be waiting for us.

  I took a taxi and first went to a jeweller's shop at Opera House. I had never before bought gold in my life. A salesman gave me a broad smile just to erase the perplexity glittering on my face.

  On my asking for designs of a ring, he placed before me a catalog. I liked one design. The price was Rs. 1700.

  “It will take at least two days to make it,” the salesman informed.

  Dismayed, I started looking at readymade rings.

  “Are you looking for a wedding ring?”

  I nodded

  “Have you brought a sample ring for the size?”

  I got confused again.

  I chose one ring of approximate size, paid Rs.1400, jumped into the waiting taxi and straightaway reached the girls' hostel. A sense of transcendent joy permeated every pore of my body. It was 11 in the morning.

  I had informed Suraiyya last evening that I would be at the main gate at eleven sharp. We were to reach the registrar's office by 11.30.

  I felt a knot in my stomach on not finding Suraiyya at the gate. This had never happened before. We were so particular about time that we strove to arrive before time to wait for each other. At times, I would come much before to get the pleasure of welcoming her, and sometimes she would arrive minutes ahead grinning to be the winner.

  It being a working day, the hostel was almost deserted. I waited outside the gate for five minutes and then called the security guard sauntering inside. When he came, I gave him the room number with the request to call Suraiyya.

  “She isn’t here,” he said curtly.

  Inconceivable. “She is expecting me,” I asserted. “She must be inside somewhere.”

  Now the watchman shot back, “I told you, she isn’t there!”

  “Where has she gone?”

  “How do I know?”

  “But....”

  “I said, I don’t have a clue.”

  “Then, find out.”

  “She hasn’t returned since last night.”

  “Rubbish, I‘d personally dropped her right here last evening.”

  Without entering into an altercation with me, he suggested that I meet the hostel superintendent. I too was fed up with him and entered the gate. The name of the super was Ms Bastikar. She was a chromium-plated middle-aged, large and stately Maharashtrian lady with fine white hair drawn into a bun on the nape of her neck. She had shrewd eyes, but her cold, handsome face was impressive.

  As I entered the office located on the left side of the lobby, she lifted her bespectacled face from a book, which appeared to be a register, and looked at me.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve come to see Suraiyya.”

  “And…may I know, who are you?”

  “Her boyfriend.”

  “Have a seat.”

  I had not come here to chat. There was a wide, long table between us. I stood behind a chair meant for guests.

  “I’m in a hurry,” I told her.

  She again asked me to draw a chair.

  I got perplexed. Silence pulsated ominously in the salty air blowing from the west. I realized, this whale of a lady would not open her bloody mouth until I did not obey her order. I pulled a chair and sat down.

  Before replying, she took out her glasses and started wiping them with a handkerchief. Then she said softly, “Suraiyya left for Mombassa by the night flight.”

  Had I not sat on the chair, I would have definitely collapsed.

  Chapter 28

  Suraiyya had not ditched me; her brother Abbas Ali had taken her away deceptively. One could say, kidnapping carried out with finesse.

  According to Lubayna, when I dropped Suraiyya last evening at the girls' hostel and was returning from the main gate dreaming about the marriage, Abbas Ali was waiting in the lobby of the hostel for his sister.

  It was but natural for Suraiyya to be surprised to see her elder brother in Bombay, and that too in her hostel, without giving any notice. “You…” she could utter just one word.

  “I had to come here for a day on a business trip,” Abbas Ali lied. “Thought I’ll meet you. Have you had your dinner?”

  “No.”

  “Come, let’s have it at the Taj and chat,” he said and got up.

  “The hostel gate closes at eight,” Suraiyya, looking at her wrist watch added, “and it’s already eight.”

  “You don't have to worry about that. I’ve got the late pass from your superintendent.”

  Suraiyya thought quickly – If she did not go out with Abbas Ali now, she would have to give him time in the morning and tomorrow morning was more important. She went out with her brother.

  Lubayna described the scene partly, brushing her long, nut-brown hair. I learned the rest from the superintendent. Abbas Ali had not taken out the late pass. He had told the super that Suraiyya's mother was ill and the doctors had given up all hope. So he especially flew down to Bombay to take Suraiyya back by the night flight.

  When an elder of a family personally comes to take charge of his ward, the super has no right to meddle.

  From this information, I could guess that after making Suraiyya sit in the taxi, her brother, instead of taking her to the Taj hotel, had headed straight for the airport. He must have already arranged for everything including flight tickets.

  It could also be guessed that on learning about the conspiracy, Suraiyya must have moved heaven and earth to escape, but she could not succeed.

  My wedding night became an unforgettable night for me. I was sleeping under the open sky on the terrace. I could neither tell anyone about my anguish nor bear it; I could only toss about on my mattress, feeling like a soft toy from which the stuffing had been removed.

  As the night progressed, my anguish increased. I wanted to scream and not stop. To make matters worse, the wind started blowing, slamming the windows. The sound of someone's breaking windowpane pierced through the silence of the night.

  I was not alone on the terrace; like the brimming worms of the gutter, some of the other tenants of our building too were sleeping on mattresses or cots, around me.

  One by one, they went back to their burrows, cursing the weather. I slept all alone. It started raining after midnight. It was God's lame attempt to douse the fire blazing in my life.

  Our love was sincere. Its roots had gone deep. Moreover, where the heart rules supreme, the anguish is intense.

  The love between Iqbal and Kiran may have started in their hearts; but its progress had taken place after considering all facets of life. Its end too was to come after much deliberation.

  Our love was blind because our hearts ruled over our minds. Their love could behold everything because their mind kept everything under check.

  There was a ma
rked difference between the two sets of lovers. Of course, both the couples dived into the ocean of love, but one took the plunge with eyes closed while the other with eyes open. And when the eyes are open, the separation is not that painful, the heart does not break into pieces and the sky does not fall.

  Iqbal's confusion increased as the week progressed rapidly towards Sunday. His heart was desperate to marry Kiran, but his intellect was holding him back. What was the reason? He found the answer reading a chapter on genetics from his own textbook.

  Telling me about his decision, Sufi explained in layman's lingo the principle of genetics. “If one colour is mixed with another, the third colour created thus contains elements of both the colours. For example, when red is mixed with white, it creates pink. This pink colour has half red and half white. The same principle is applicable to the children born out of the copulation between a man and a woman.”

  What Sufi wanted to convey was that if he married a slut, the child thus born would also contain the characteristics of a slut. If the child were a girl, it was likely that she would be tempted to follow her mother's footsteps. Sufi did not want it to happen knowingly or unknowingly. It is understandable that no man, who knows this principle of genetics, would like that to happen.

  Exploring this issue concerning genetics raised by Sufi from a different perspective, it means that the elevation of a prostitute is not desirable. The audacious social workers who bestow the sanctimonious status of a wife to a sinful woman are wrong. Or, at least, they should not commit the mistake of producing children.

  However, those who believe in genetics forget one thing. The principles of genetics, which have gone through the test of science, are not a hundred per cent correct. For the character of a child depends on the atmosphere of his or her upbringing. The environment surrounding him or her determines the child’s development. Moreover, it also hinges on the state of mind of a man and a woman during the coitus.

  This means that though a woman may be of loose character before and after copulation, if a divine feeling takes over during climax, it will impact her pregnancy. That is why it is not necessary that a mafia's son will always turn out to be a ‘bad guy’. In the same way, the son of a priest may turn out to be a bandit.

  Angulimal was a dreaded dacoit. He used to cut off the fingers of his victims, make a garland out of them and wear it around his neck; but when god entered his heart, he left the path of sin and surrendered to divinity. Can genetics explain this?

  It is said that the creator of the Ramayana, Valmiki too was a dacoit earlier. You might be familiar with the romantic tale of Jesal and Toral in which the love of Toral transforms the dreaded dacoit Jesal. Mary Magdalene was a known harlot of her time. Jesus Christ awakened compassion in her heart. When Christ was being crucified, she was given the sacred duty of washing his feet, following which she was no longer a fallen soul but a saint. Can genetics explain this?

  It is true and proven by science that genes play a cardinal role in procreation. But genes are directly linked to the brain. That is why the thoughts that occur during coitus have a direct bearing on the genes and have an impression on the resultant pregnancy.

  Had Sufi investigated the subject of genetics thoroughly at the crucial moment of decision, his wife would perhaps have been Kiran, and not Masooma. We could consider it the result of Sufi's fragmentary scientific outlook, but he once again calls it destiny.

  Before letting Kiran know about his decision, he invited her to dinner at the Palm Grove hotel. It was Sunday. The week's deadline expired that day. Though he was dead tired from spending the evening at the racecourse with DK, he had driven from Colaba to Juhu.

  “What will you have?” Iqbal asked her, taking a seat at the table facing the beach.

  Surprisingly, Kiran had come in a silk sari – a red one with a contrasting black border and blouse. “That depends on your verdict.” She replied after a few seconds’ pause, “If the decision is positive then whatever money you have in your pocket won’t be enough.”

  “I’ve at least three thousand rupees,” he said with a smile, taking out his wallet and glancing over a bundle of hundred-rupee notes.

  “The dishes of my choice are more expensive than that.”

  “What if the answer is negative?”

  “Then…just a bottle of liquor.”

  “A full bottle?”

  She nodded, adjusting the bra strip on her shoulder.

  Iqbal placed an order for Chinese cuisine for himself and a bottle of scotch whiskey for Kiran. He had answered her subtly, without using a single word. He attempted to gauge her reaction. There was an embarrassed long pause, but no visible sign of its impact on Kiran's face, although she was rattled from within.

  “Have you ever had a full bottle?” Iqbal asked before the food arrived.

  “Never.”

  “Why today?”

  “It’s necessary to get drunk,” she explained, “else dreams will haunt me all night.”

  “I thought you had strong will power.”

  “That's right, but certainly not as rock-hard as yours.”

  “That's what you think.”

  “You have taken the decision.”

  “That’s my misfortune.” He did not feel it necessary to explain the reason. “It's true that I’ve loved you from the bottom of my heart. Though both of us are smiling now, it has been equally painful for me, if not more, as for you. It’s also true that we will be able to overcome the jolt in a few days.”

  The bearer came and first placed a bottle of scotch and a glass in front of Kiran who started drinking without any fuss. After a while, a bowl of sweet corn soup was placed before Iqbal. He began afresh after taking a spoonful, “Kiran, I’ve a request to make.”

  “Shoot.”

  “We will be parting as lovers, can’t we remain friends?”

  “We were friends and we will be parting as friends.”

  “Are you sure?” He asked adding, “or has the liquor started talking!”

  “What nonsense, I’ve not even finished the first peg.”

  “Then why do you say that?”

  “An affair that never got off the ground, a love in which there is no place for even a kiss, call it love or friendship, what difference does it make?” she pointed out sharply, then continued after a prolonged silence “I don't want you as a friend.”

  “Don't I even deserve that much?”

  “Of course you deserve it, but I don't want to test your patience.” Kiran's voice grew increasingly acerbic with every peg. “I’d buried my past just for you. Now I’ll have to instill a new life into it. Again, men will start coming into my life and now it would be painful for you to see it.”

  “If you wish you can chart a new path,” he suggested, finishing the soup and bringing the plate of spring rolls closer, trying to placate her. “Your college studies are still incomplete. Finish it. As a friend, I’ll be more than happy to accept all your financial responsibilities.”

  “Nobody runs my life for me.”

  “After obtaining a degree you can take up a job of your choice.”

  “And then?”

  “Marry a young man of your choice.”

  “Who will marry a slut?”

  “After getting a degree and a job, all will be forgotten, even your past...”

  “That's what you think. And, I’m not a goddess like Mirabai, who could devote her entire life worshipping Lord Krishna. I’m an ordinary woman. I too have a heart and what if that heart longs for a man?”

  Kiran's voice now rose a note higher. “Then, should I hire a gigolo to satisfy my physical needs? No, Iqbal, I’m not the type who enjoys orgies and being revered in public like a Devi. Whatever I do, I’ll do it openly. I have that much courage. I can squarely face society.”

  The effects of intoxication had started showing in her expressions too. “And what is this society? The same motherfucker, whom I respected as a father, raped me night after night for a month! The same husbands
who cheat on their wives and screw me are respected by society as genteel people! Iqbal, I don't wear masks and neither do I wear blinkers. Even after six pegs, I can see clearly, think clearly.”

  Such a display of emotions was uncharacteristic of her. After the seventh peg, she tossed her head and went on: “A chance of a lifetime had appeared before me. I thought, I’d step out of filth into a villa. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. I’m the child of a wandering tribe. How can we have a house? An open sky above and the earth below is what we call a home. What a fool I was to dream of a refuge within four walls.”

  She started laughing. She started laughing out loud as if she had cracked a joke which only she understood. In fact, she was still experiencing the intense feeling the rejection had triggered, resulting in a torrent of words that came gushing out like a waterfall.

  “Hey, you!” She said, pointing a finger at Iqbal, “You must be thinking that I’ve been badly hurt by your decision! Don't be under that illusion! Just remember! The proposal for marriage was not yours but mine. I put it forward. That was my right. And, whenever I exercise my right, I never forget that the other person too has some rights. I’d given you the right to accept or reject. And... and, I was prepared for it. Had I not prepared myself, I’d have been extremely miserable. Perhaps I would have committed suicide like other foolish girls! Or gone mad and gotten locked up in a mental asylum! But I’m not like that. I didn’t commit suicide even when that bastard father of mine had raped me for the first time.”