by Aabid Surti
“Eight and a half,” announced Duttaram, the leader of the syndicate after a hurried consultation with the other members.
“Nine rupees.”
There was Iqbal on one side and the syndicate on the other. Both the parties knew that nine rupees was the selling price. Buying the stock at this rate and selling it at the same rate would not only be unprofitable but the rent of the tempo and the labour charges too would have to be shelled out from the pocket.
Increasing the rate beyond nine rupees would lead to losses. The syndicate could not commit such a blunder. At the same time, they did not want to lose the battle.
They discussed amongst themselves and finally Duttaram gave a veiled threat to the fishermen: “It’s your choice, sell your stock at eight and a half rupees a kilo to the syndicate or at nine rupees to Iqbal seth. But, don’t you forget! We are here to stay but Iqbal seth may not be here tomorrow.”
The threat had a ring of truth. Before Iqbal, several other traders had ventured to penetrate the fish market, but the shark-like brokers had trapped them so badly that none had returned till date.
Iqbal stood watching silently. The rivals had made a good move. They had not bid further yet they had made a forward move. Not only that, their words had the desired effect. The fishermen were stunned.
If Iqbal really did withdraw in a couple of days, the syndicate members were bound to take revenge on them. These days, they were fixing the daily rate of the prawns at seven instead of eight rupees. In the future, they may quote still lower.
The fishermen clashed amongst themselves. Like the crows that were hovering over the baskets, crowing and picking up a fish or two whenever they got the chance, the fishermen too started squabbling noisily.
There were two Muslims among these Kolis. And…whenever an ordinary Muslim gets embroiled in such a situation, he never thinks of the future. What does one get by worrying about tomorrow? God is there to take care of the future. “We won’t ever get such a high price!” declared one of the two Muslim fishermen. The other fishermen were hesitating to agree. Before they could decide, Iqbal played the trump card, “Nine and a half rupees.” Dagdu was thrilled to see him in full form again.
The syndicate members were stunned. The dispute among the fishermen was immediately resolved. Everyone unanimously handed over the stock to Iqbal. This time the syndicate members returned like shredded chickens.
The stock was one and a quarter ton, or 1250 kilo. Iqbal had suffered a loss of fifty paisa per kilo. However, for a person, who had carefully planned the strategy for a week to make fifty lakh from just this business, the loss was a pittance.
Besides, by incurring a petty loss, he had taken control of the whole business. The monopoly that was with the brokers for decades had finally slipped away. Iqbal proved himself to be the don of the prawn mafia.
This routine continued for a few days. Every morning, both the parties would come to the Sassoon Dock. Both the rivals would make their bids. Iqbal would sit tight after bidding nine rupees. He knew that the syndicate would not go beyond that.
Let us now look at Iqbal’s perception in detail. On the first day, he had suffered an insignificant loss on his investment. (About Rs.700) From the second day, he had to bear only the rent of the tempo and the labour charges for a week. However, from the third week, he started making a profit.
Surprisingly, during the auction he never bid low. Of course he was also not in a position to lower the rates. Then, how did this miracle happen?
Of the total eight brokers, who supplied prawns to the factories located in the Wagle Industrial Estate, five were the main agents. After the tussle between Iqbal and the syndicate began, all the small suppliers withdrew from the prawn business and started supplying pomfret and other varieties of fish to the local market. Thereafter, Iqbal cut off the umbilical cord of the syndicate and became the sole supplier of prawns.
There were four factories and the demand was double. Knowing this, he sold the whole lot to only one factory. It was but natural that the other three factory owners were shit scared. If Iqbal went on supplying prawns to just one client, the other three would soon close down.
The purchase officers of the factories were perplexed. The way the prawn mafia had cornered the fishermen by forming a syndicate, Iqbal too had trapped the big companies.
After two days, the purchase officers of the other three factories were on their knees with folded hands. “There…I get nine rupees per kilo,” Iqbal bluntly told them. “If you can afford to pay nine and a half, I’ll supply it to you as well.”
They did not have any other option. If they wanted to keep the company running, to meet the regular demands of their customers and not to lose the export orders, they would have to accept the rate Iqbal demanded. Else…
From the third day, he started supplying prawns as per their requirement to all the four companies at the same price.
At this end, the situation of the brokers had become pitiable. If they were to return empty-handed day after day, they would soon have to wash dishes in a restaurant. An entire month had passed without work. After another fortnight, they started seeing stars during the day. Now, there was no other go but to surrender to Iqbal Seth.
While the purchase officers had accepted the sudden increase in rates, they had also started making contacts with the brokers of other ports. However, it takes time to put things in order after a sudden brake is applied to a system that has been operating smoothly since years.
The purchase officers were about to strike a deal with the new brokers to buy at nine rupees a kilo, when Iqbal promised to lower the rate by fifty paisa. This too was a clever move. He had come to know that the syndicate was going to surrender in a couple of days. In that case, he need not take fifty paise extra from the factories.
The day he promised the purchase officers, the leader of the syndicate – Duttaram proposed, “Iqbal Seth! Let’s do business together.”
“Together?”
“We are five partners, you are the sixth one.”
“No. I don’t want to be your partner.” He said flatly, paused for a while and added. “But, I don’t mind doing business with you.”
“How?”
“You do the bidding, fix the market price, but you won’t sell to anyone besides me.”
They debated the proposal among themselves for a few minutes. In fact, there was no sense in discussing the issue. They were on their knees. The deal was very clear. Iqbal wanted to control the prawns market so that they dare not raise their head in the future. Against this condition, Iqbal was also giving them the most needed opportunity to earn their bread and butter.
They were relegated to the status of a pet dog, yet they accepted the proposal.
Iqbal had an absolute monopoly over the seafood exports companies. He was now able to lower or increase the prices from time to time. The real income (Cream, in Dagdu’s words) was right here. He wanted to earn millions and establishing a monopoly was the first step in that direction. The second step was to enter into a contract with India’s international seafood company, Britannia. Here, he committed a Himalayan blunder and that tossed him out of the ring.
Chapter 34
Iqbal fixed an appointment with the general manager of Britannia and arrived at the company’s Nariman Point office. Manager Mr. Karkare welcomed him with surprise. Instead of the usual illiterate Marathas, who were the suppliers in the sea-food business, here was a well-dressed young man standing before him with a briefcase in hand.
Iqbal took extra care over his appearance. He was always well scrubbed and scrupulously clean. Not only that, he used to take along an extra shirt in his briefcase when going for a special appointment so that he did not smell of fish. Before the meeting, he would change into a new shirt in the taxi.
“Yes, Mr. Rupani!” Manager Karkare said after offering him a seat, “What can I do for you?”
“I can manage your entire supply quota.”
“Do you know how much our co
mpany buys from different suppliers?”
“About eight tons, and your requirement is ten.”
“Absolutely right.” Karkare realized that the young chap sitting on the chair before him had done his homework well. “At what rate will you offer?”
“Nine and half rupees a kilo.”
Karkare made some calculations. If he got ten tons daily instead of the usual eight, there would be more profit and even after deducting the negligible loss on account of the higher rate, the company could make a decent profit. Besides, it was better to deal with a cultured agent rather than haggle with a bunch of ten baboons.
“The rate is no problem,” he said after a pause. “But you will have to agree to our terms.”
“What?”
“Without fail, you must supply ten tons daily.”
“Sure.”
Both the parties signed the contract.
Iqbal rented an office at Carnac Bunder to carry on the business. He made Dagdu a 25 per cent partner in the business. His present job was just to attend the office. His tempo would now ply for the King’s Seafood Company launched by Iqbal. A receptionist for the office and a driver for the tempo were also appointed.
Iqbal would go out to purchase after the morning prayer. He had arranged to receive consignments from outside Bombay at the Bhaucha Dhakka dock.
(Here, Sufi provided some interesting information: Kolis, the fisher community, are the backbone of the fisheries. Kolis can be both Gujarati and Marathi. Gujarati Kolis were uprooted from the Sassoon dock following stiff competition between the two communities. Now, they offloaded their stocks only at Bhaucha Dhakka.)
Iqbal would take the delivery from all the ports and load the stock into the tempo to send it to the Britannia factory. Dagdu supervised the operation there. The purchase officer would wash the prawns in the water tank, weigh them, note down the weight and forward them to different sections of the factory where these were packed in airtight cans.
Everything was going on smoothly, as expected. Iqbal’s King’s Seafood Company was making a net profit of Rs.3,00,000 per month after meeting all expenses. Dagdu was getting Rs.75,000 as per his 25 per cent share, while the remaining amount went to Iqbal.
An income of rupees two to three lakh was peanuts in a venture handled by Iqbal. His ambition was to roll in millions. He was very well aware that the seafood business had high potential. India had just begun to explore it.
Given a vision and the required capital, an entrepreneur can earn not just millions but billions in this trade. Iqbal had the vision. The computer-brain had served so far in the field of crime; now it was active in a constructive field.
Iqbal thought, the Alphonso is considered the king of mangos; so is pomfret the queen of fish. If only the foreigners developed a liking for the Indian pomfret, the country could have a turnover of crores in a year. Moreover, with so much of foreign exchange earnings, the government too would be happy.
He put forward this new proposal before Britannia’s manager Karkare. Karkare was a younger generation Maratha, a double graduate and one with foresight to boot. He accepted the proposal and asked for samples.
The next day, Iqbal gave him two pomfret of outstanding quality. Each of them weighed one and a half kilo. Karkare sent these samples packed in ice to the London office.
Sufi claims, these two samples of pomfret were going to revolutionise the seafood trade. He was the first visionary to have taken the initiative in this direction. Had he survived in the business, he would have really rolled in millions.
Today (1990), the export of pomfret fetches fifty crore rupees.
Before the import order from London arrived, Iqbal’s downfall had already begun. As I could see, only he was responsible for his own catastrophe. He stepped into quicksand by signing the contract with Britannia to supply ten tons of prawns every day.
He had started the prawn business in August-September. He did not know at the time that like flowers and fruits, prawns too have their season. This season starts before September when a couple of tons of prawns are caught from each shore.
When he signed the contract with Britannia in November, it was the peak season for prawns. He had thought getting the required quota every month would be easy.
The supply of prawns started dwindling by February. The shore from which he used to get a ton of prawns now started supplying him only three-quarters. He did not lose heart. He established contacts with other nearby ports. He replenished the shortage by getting prawns from Goa. He was swimming upstream against the current.
By March-April, warning bells started ringing. The supply came down from three-fourths of a ton to one-fourth, or just 250 kilos. A similar condition prevailed in Bombay and its surrounding coastal areas.
In order to fulfill his commitment, he now had to target Ratnagiri, Malwan and Vengurla ports. He bought an Ambassador car for travel. The car became his house on wheels. He would roam for miles every day. He would buy from whichever port he could get the stock, put them in ice, load them on a truck and rush them to Bombay. He was exhausting himself day in and day out. For what? Just to keep his word? Maybe there was some light at the end of the tunnel.
At this end, the entire responsibility fell on Dagdu. This rustic Maratha was basically honest but unfit to handle administrative jobs. So long as Iqbal was in Bombay, he guided Dagdu. Now, he was all alone.
Frequent delays started occurring in supplies to the factory. One day, when the purchase officer of Britannia lost his temper, Dagdu just slapped him.
Iqbal came to know of the incident only when he reached Bombay a week later. He realized that it was futile to wander around coast to coast round the clock. Moreover, he did not have the time to appoint an experienced manager.
His energy was drained simply trying to meet his target. There was a shortage of about fifty kilos. It was impossible to supply the full quota because things were beyond his control. Finally, he wound up his enterprise, King’s Seafood Company.
Two notable incidents occurred in that month – The two samples of pomfret sent to London had the desired result. A massive order for fifty tons was received from there. This was an excellent opportunity to become a billionaire, but Iqbal, the man who paved the way, had left the arena.
The second incident was to take him back to smuggling.
Iqbal had failed in just one venture, I had failed in four. My condition had become worse than that of a pauper on the street after four of my painting exhibitions flopped one after another. The only difference between a beggar and me was that while he could beg, I could not even borrow. Art had become a millstone around my neck.
I was crushed under heavy debt. My friends slipped into by lanes seeing me coming down the road. If by chance a friend bumped into me, he would get rid of me by throwing a two-rupee note at me. With the money, I would eat usal-pav, bread and curry, and survive for a couple of days.
My relationship with my family had become confined to my going there to sleep on the terrace. I was a prodigal son, good for nothing. Sometimes, I used to tiptoe through the hall like a thief to change my clothes and leave the house without having tea. I had no right to food where I did not contribute a dime to the household expenses. Besides, keeping away from home was the best safeguard against the proposals for marriage.
Iqbal too was worried about marriage. Pressure had been mounting on him after he left smuggling. Like every mother, his mom too dreamt of her son standing tall in groom’s attire by the side of the bride. Like me, he too was rejecting marriage proposals in his own way. But I lacked his strength to face this oppressive atmosphere.
Mental stress increased day by day. This took its toll on my health. As a result, I would feel dizzy while hunting for work and fall down unconscious on roads, on footpaths, railway platforms, anywhere.
The tragic part of these recurring fits was that when I opened my eyes, the first thing that I saw was a bunch of stinking shoes. I would be struggling for fresh air while a few gentlemen would be
trying hard to make me smell their shoes. A crowd would gather around me to watch the tamasha.
They thought I was suffering from hysteria. God only knows who had enlightened them with the misinformation that if a convulsive patient falls unconscious, they should make him sniff leather for a speedy recovery. Of course, I was not suffering from hysteria, but from depression. One good thing about getting up after lying like a log for a few minutes was that I felt as if I had woken up after a month of sound sleep. My entire body felt fresh and the world appeared more beautiful.
This euphoria did not last long. After a few hours, the grey clouds of uneasiness would gather around me once again. After a few days, I would again feel the world swinging around me and collapse on the spot.
In those days, the Vipassana meditation camps had just started. Those were the days when the late J. Krishnamurti used to have satsang for a week once a year on our JJ campus and Rajneesh (Osho) set up a tent at the Azad Maidan. He gathered passers by with his sonorous voice to sermonize to them.