Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  The list of Sufi’s secret donations is quite long. (He never reveals his name and insists that his name should not be displayed on plaques.)

  One can very well imagine that if he had received ten crore rupees from DK towards his share in the partnership, he would have invested the money in some businesses that would have given employment to the poor and the needy.

  And yet, he was not disappointed. It was a wake-up call. He had received a golden opportunity to start his life afresh. He grabbed it purposefully. He rented out the steam launch, Al Kabir, he had received from the partnership, to the Koli fishermen. Now it was used to catch fish. He would be earning four thousand rupees a month.

  From the ten lakh rupees he had received in cash, he set aside two lakh to start a new business and bought a new flat in the suburb of Khar for his family.

  He got an additional one and a half lakh rupees from the sale of his room in the Abbasi Manzil of Munda Galli at Dongri. He deposited that money in the bank accounts of his two brothers.

  He still had the apartment in Sagar Darshan building and the car. He was in no hurry to sell off the apartment because the property rates in the Warden Road area were shooting up in leaps and bounds. The car had not yet been disposed of. He was expecting to get about sixty thousand rupees from the sale in a few days.

  There was now no need for him to live away from his family. Smuggling had become a thing of the past. He had come back amid his near and dear ones. With him now there was his mother and the youngest brother Razzak who still worked honestly in the footwear shop. He was no more a kid. Now he was a seventeen-year-old young man.

  The middle brother Firoze had joined a commerce college. Studies did not interest him and he left college to take up a job with a chemist’s shop. He desired to open his own shop in the future.

  A new sun had risen in his life. The days of adventure, tension and cat-and-mouse games had faded into oblivion. After years, the longest vacation had ‘happened’ in his life. He was purring like a contented cat frolicking with ideas. Initially, he was unable to pinpoint what mode of activity he ought to adopt. What profession should he take up? Where should he begin from?

  A few weeks rolled by, making new plans and scrapping them. In the third month, a new business opportunity popped up, courtesy his one-time colleague, the croaking Dagdu.

  Following the dissolution of the partnership, all the members of the gang had scattered. The members of the lowest rung in particular, had become unemployed. Some of them had started a gang of pickpockets, while others had joined matka gambling dens. Someone became a carrier, while some others took up smuggling of alcoholic drinks. Dagdu was planning to go back to his old profession of juggling at the Bori Bunder railway station by becoming a coolie once again.

  “I wouldn’t advise you to do that,” Iqbal told him when he broached the subject.

  “But why not?”

  “You are already a ‘celebrity’ there. As soon as a passenger will report theft, the police will come knocking on your door, even if someone else might have done the job,” Iqbal said and added, “I’ve a gut feeling that you won’t be happy there.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Service.”

  “Who will give me a job?”

  “You can also start a small business.”

  “That would require capital.”

  “Haven’t you saved anything?”

  “You think a guy with two wives and nine children can make any savings?” he croaked.. “And yet I must have saved about eight to ten thousand rupees. But one cannot even buy a tempo with that money.”

  Iqbal grabbed his last sentence, “Suppose you can buy a tempo in eight thousand rupees, what will you do?”

  “Boss!” he beamed, “I live near Sassoon Dock where tempos are in great demand.”

  Iqbal got interested. “How come there is so much work there while the tempo owners are sitting idle here?”

  “I don’t know that but I’m certain that no tempo leaves empty from there.”

  “All right,” Iqbal told him, “Meet me after two days.”

  He did not know then that he was stepping into the new world of the prawn mafia.

  Chapter 33

  Within two days, Iqbal went to the Sassoon Dock and scrupulously inquired. He found that there was a real demand for tempos. However, most of the tempo owners preferred not to ply there. Why?

  There was a wholesale fish market in that port at Colaba. Kolis from far off shores used to come in boats to dump their stocks there. Tons of fish used to arrive every morning. The rates of different quality of fish were determined according to the season. Brokers, small and big, used to buy fish in tons.

  Fish rots if kept outside water for long. Hence, it has to be jettisoned soon. The easiest way of disposing them of was to sell the fish to the companies manufacturing sea food located in the Wagle Industrial Estate at Thane at the other end of Bombay. (They exist even today.) Companies like Castle Rock, Bombay Fisheries, and Britannia export fish in air-tight cans to other countries.

  The transporters did not like to carry the fish in their tempos. There were two main reasons for their reluctance. One can understand the dilemma of the Hindus, who were vegetarian, and did not lift fish. Secondly, the tempos carrying fish suffered more wear and tear. Because of the salt water, the inside of the tempo was adversely affected and its paint wore off very fast. The exposed parts rusted quickly. This diminished the life of the tempo. However, the business was profitable.

  Sufi got all this information and meditated over it thoroughly. On the third day, he finalized everything and decided to back Dagdu. In those days, a tempo was priced at thirty-two thousand rupees. Dagdu put in eight thousand. Iqbal offered an equal amount. He took the remaining sixteen thousand as loan from a bank and bought Dagdu a tempo. Dagdu’s life got back on track.

  Everyday, he would stuff the tempo with fish from Sassoon Dock and unload it at the factories in Thane. From the income, he would make a living, keep aside a part for the bank loan and buy a bottle of country liquor in the evening. He was a happy man.

  He continued for about a month when suddenly there was turmoil in his empty skull. Watching everyday the auction of fish at the Sassoon Dock, he suddenly remembered the boss.

  Iqbal had not yet decided on a career. Nothing was finalized yet. If someone like Dagdu came to him for advice, he would get engaged in the problem for a few days. (He did not believe in helping blindly). He would thoroughly investigate the matter and sponsor only if he found the case to be genuine.

  “Boss!” Dagdu came to his house one evening and croaked proudly, “I’ve an excellent business proposal.”

  Iqbal was amused, “go ahead.”

  “From tomorrow you are coming to Sassoon Dock to buy fish in wholesale.”

  “Then?”

  “Then what? Load the fish in my tempo and sell the stock to the factories at Thane,” Dagdu was filled with excitement. “Even a bird-brain can understand such a simple business, can’t you?”

  “How much capital would be needed?”

  “Ah?”

  “How much do we have to shell out everyday?”

  He scratched his head.

  “At least you should be knowing the profit margin in this fishy business?”

  “I don’t know all that,” he admitted.

  “Then what made you involve me?”

  “I thought that since the brokers buy tons of fish every day, there must be a lot of profit. Else, why should anyone come early in the morning to breathe in the stench?”

  Dagdu was absolutely right. Iqbal thought that the margin of profit in the business must be very high. He had plenty of time to investigate. He did exactly that.

  He would arrive at Sassoon Dock every morning after breakfast. Dagdu would meet him there. He would elucidate like a tourist guide, moving around leisurely with Iqbal.

  “Here the highest demand is for prawns. The brokers will pounce on it first. Hundreds of kilos of
prawns are sold within the batting of an eyelid. See those two baskets? The one on which a crow is sitting. There must be around ten kilos of prawns in each.”

  “But, you said tons of goods arrive here,” Iqbal asked his first question on the very first day after surveying the market. “And here there is nothing but a few baskets.”

  “These are just the samples.”

  “Oh!”

  “Fishermen anchor their boats laden with fish at the dock and bring a basket or two of fish on the jetty. Similarly, all the boat owners have presented two baskets each as a sample. Now, there will be the auction.”

  Gradually Iqbal began to comprehend. One could guess the quality of fish from the two baskets. The best quality prawns are known as Tiger prawns.

  Each prawn weighs about one-quarter kilo. Thus, a kilo will have only four or five prawns. These best quality prawns are bought by five-star hotels. They also fetch high prices in the export market.

  The second quality of prawns is known as ‘White’ or ‘Medium’. ‘White’ because of their colour and ‘medium’ because of their size.

  Last come in the ‘Tiny’, which are very small. These prawns are dried, mixed with salt, chilly and fried. People munch it with much relish sipping alcoholic drinks. There is not much difference in looks and taste between the fried prawns and chivda, fried flakes of rice.

  In that day’s auction in the wholesale market, the opening bid for prawns was set at eight rupees a kilo. Iqbal also came to know that day that the broker, who had bid after examining the sample, had to buy the entire stock of prawns after the deal was finalized.

  “Dagdu!” Iqbal inquired on seeing him leave, “where are you going?”

  “My master has finalized the deal. I’ll have to leave with the goods,” he replied.

  “Wait for me.”

  “Will you join me?” He said expressing surprise.

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  “You will have to use an oxygen mask else the stench of the fish will blast your head off,” he grinned dashing after the Kolis carrying baskets of fish on their head. Crows hovered over them pecking from the baskets.

  Iqbal gave a last look at the market. All the brokers here were Marathas and illiterate. They had all worked their way up, having started out small doing petty jobs like Dagdu. Though they earned quite a substantial amount, there had been no change in their attire, behaviour or culture.

  Two of them were wearing dirty dhotis and equally dirty long shirts. One had worn a knee-long, loose half-pant and a bush-shirt. Yet, they all looked like birds of the same feather in their angled Gandhi caps. Iqbal, dressed smartly in a sparkling white safari suit, stood out among these agents.

  Iqbal arrived before Dagdu started the tempo. Dagdu’s employer, Duttaram (who also looked like Dagdu) was standing at the back of the tempo along with a fisherwoman.

  The stench of the prawns attacked Iqbal with a vengeance as he tried to sit besides Dagdu. For a moment, he felt like bolting from there. However, he was relieved after the tempo started. The wind was blowing on their faces and he was sitting in the front.

  The tempo started, whirring and jumping over bumps, headed in the direction of Thane. Iqbal thought about Dagdu’s boss, Duttaram, who was standing in the midst of prawns smoking a bidi and wooing the fisherwomen. Was he not offended by the stench?

  Initially, that great Maratha too must have felt wretched like him. Then, gradually he must have become accustomed to it. After all, Dagdu too had become habituated to the smell. My dear Iqbal, a voice echoed within, you too will get accustomed to it one day.

  On reaching Thane, the tempo stopped opposite the Bombay Fisheries factory in the front yard. The process of unloading the prawns and dumping them in a water tank began soon after. After washing, the prawns were weighed on the giant scales and sent inside the factory. There the heads were removed while the remaining parts of the prawns were packed in airtight cans.

  Iqbal made some mental notes. The original rate of the prawns was eight rupees a kilo. The purchase officer of the factory bought at nine. Thus, there was a profit of one rupee per kilo and the entire stock was of two tons. The gross profit worked out to two thousand rupees. After deducting the rent of the tempo and the wages, a single broker earned a net profit of Rs.1950 per day.

  He felt that on the strength of his capital if he bought ten tons of prawns from the market, he could earn nine thousand rupees a day. To commence with, he purchased just one ton. When he loaded the prawns into the tempo and came to the factory, he was washed clean along with the prawns on the very first day.

  This was just the beginning. Unlike the illicit business, in this so-called legal trade the words of honour did not carry much weight. There was cut-throat competition here. Those whom he had taken for granted as uncouth Marathas were in fact prawn mafia.

  Iqbal realized that he had stepped into the territory of an entirely new breed of gangsters after having retired from the international racket. The question of backing out did not arise. He did not believe in chickening out after taking a plunge into the danger zone.

  He decided to fight the mafia tooth and nail; but this battle wasn’t going to be fought with guns and grenades. It was going to be a battle of wits. One had to make the enemy lick the dust without touching him. This was a unique game where one had to slaughter a goat without a knife.

  Now let’s examine what happened on the very first day. Seeing Iqbal entering the ring, the prawn sharks welcomed him wholeheartedly as if he were one of them. Showing large heartedness, they allowed him to buy two baskets of the best quality of prawns. These were samples from a one-ton consignment. Then he loaded the consignment on Dagdu’s tempo and went straight to the factory at Thane. When the purchase officer dumped the entire lot in the water tank and then put it on the measuring scale, the one-ton consignment became three-quarters. He was surprised, and got suspicious about the authenticity of the scale.

  “I hope the scale is correct,” he questioned politely.

  Purchase officer Rangacharya looked at him and asked, “What makes you suspicious?”

  “I’d purchased one ton.”

  The purchase office wanted to laugh at the amateur trader. Instead he questioned again. “Have you given a thought to why we put the consignment in the water tank before putting it on the scale?”

  “To clean it, naturally.”

  “That we can do even after weighing it.”

  “Er…?”

  “Try to understand, the fishermen bring the prawns frozen in ice. That means the prawns have enough content of ice crystals in them which cannot be seen with bare eyes,” the purchase officer explained. “The ice melts after we put the prawns in the water tank and with it the weight too drops. However, in your case, it has been outright cheating. The ice was unnecessarily sandwiched between the two layers of prawns in the baskets.”

  The consignment worth eight thousand rupees was reduced to six thousand rupees. Besides, there was also a difference in the quality of prawns kept for the sample and the rest of the stock. In the first transaction, he could not even recover his investment, let alone earn a profit.

  Yet, he stepped into the ring the next day. The brokers had not expected it. They had presumed that after being washed down with the prawns, he wouldn’t commit the error of appearing again.

  They were grossly mistaken. Iqbal had taken the plunge into the new business with the readiness to gamble at least one lakh rupees. Moreover, his tenacity ruled his head. He had decided to take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

  Had the prawn mafia not played the dirty trick on him, he would have perhaps got bored and left the business on his own. Right from childhood, he had lived his life facing challenges. Here there was neither tension nor challenge. Leading such a routine life was not his cup of tea.

  He was looking for a thrill even in a prosaic, workaday business. And that he got here. The computer in his brain started working full time. Sadly, the machine failed before it could deliver an
y result.

  The brokers secretly formed a syndicate and announced a rate that was fifty paise lower than the market price. The trick was that either all the fishermen should sell their catch to the syndicate or no one buys from them. In other words, it was sheer blackmail. In cut-throat competition you don’t have even the right to grumble. The syndicate had killed two birds with a stone. They had cut Iqbal to size and slashed the rate too.

  Iqbal was once bitten twice shy. It would be foolish on his part to accept the challenge and buy the entire stock. There was not much time to think. The fishermen, considering their own good, sold their entire stock to the syndicate. Iqbal returned home like a dead duck.

  He vanished for a week. During these seven days he made fresh computations and turned up in the ring once again. The syndicate members now realized that this camel wouldn’t leave the tent so easily.

  Soon they decided the rate and announced it before the fishermen – seven and half rupees. The fishermen did not have enough funds to challenge the monopoly. If they protested and the syndicate members left without purchasing, they were doomed. The entire stock would rot.

  As the syndicate members went forward to lift the stock, Iqbal sprung a surprise, “I’ll pay eight rupees.” He started the bidding afresh. He had quoted fifty paise above the rate fixed by the syndicate. All the fishermen along with the five members of the syndicate were taken aback.