by Aabid Surti
Take the example of artist Hussain. He had accepted the patronage of the Congress party. The party high command directed him to paint in support of the Emergency. Following the command of Her Majesty’s Government, he painted a giant-sized canvas in three pieces. Its title was, ‘Durga-Amba-Kali’, the so-called three incarnations of Indira Gandhi.
In short, my predicament was whether to convert my art into a commodity or not. If I turned trader, I would not be able to express what I felt within. My conscience would be pleading with me to do what my heart desired, while the customer’s demand would be something altogether different. For example, an artist committed to leftist ideology would not make paintings to please capitalists.
I knew very well that paintings on certain subjects and colour combinations would sell like hot cakes. Take the horse, for example…. If I started painting horses in fascinating colours, I would not need to market them. I would sell as many of them as I could paint. Hussain did exactly that in the beginning. He drew horses one after another and flooded the market.
Another popular subject was still-life. It also meant flower vases. The late Ara had developed an expertise in that. Whenever in dire need of money, he would hold an exhibition of paintings of flowerpots or colourful nudes. Anyone would want to display such paintings which offered a rainbow of pleasing colours.
I wanted to neither deal in flowers nor trade in horses. (Had I wanted to do that, I would have preferred to sell peanuts and rice flakes like the bhaiyya from North India who had set up shop below our building.) What do I do if I make no compromises? How on earth was I to survive? That was my quandary. Surely, I don’t want to starve in an attic waiting for my talent to be recognized. A degree of change was called for.
My lifestyle would have been truly different today if only I had come across the diary of the world-famous Italian painter Salvador Dali in my youth. He had written that before becoming an artist, he decided to become a millionaire. He did not reveal the secret of becoming a millionaire; but he has listed the grounds for his choosing, the main being the following:
Don’t have to go to friends with a begging bowl to buy canvas and colours.
Don’t have to compromise with one’s principles.
Throw a grand cocktail party for art critics before throwing open one’s exhibition.
Keep editors, art critics in one’s pocket to buy media coverage. This includes newspapers, periodicals, radio and today’s TV channels.
That fellow had understood the secret of success at the young age of twenty. He knew well that one could buy most of the art critics. One could get one’s interview published as a great painter with photographs by throwing money.
What Dali had said forty years ago holds true even today. Which critic would dare condemn his host after consuming gallons of liquor at the preview?
Besides, it is customary to stuff envelopes containing cash in the pockets of journalists present at the press conference. Don’t call it a bribe – the proper term is ‘taxi fare.’
The critique of my painting exhibition depended entirely on the quality of my work. The reviewers used to tear me apart if they found it below the mark. Sometimes, I felt that like the traffic police, they too were on the look out for an opportunity to complete their quota. Some of the trafficwallahs are known to jot down car numbers even if the people driving are not at fault. (A familiar traffic cop had revealed this secret to me.)
It is also a fact that despite the filth in the field of art, honest art critics like Sri Nadkarni and the late Jag Mohan stood by me firmly, acting like my backbone.
That year, sets of sketch pens were introduced in the market. Because I liked the sheen of their colours, I bought a set before embarking on a journey to Mathura and Brindavan. When I returned, I held an exhibition in Bombay of the sketches I had drawn of the kunj Gallis with the same set of pens.
When Nissim Ezzekiel, the famous art critic of The Times of India could not find any fault with my drawings, he wrote a full column censuring me for using a medium that was not suitable for experimenting in art. In other words, my sketches were junk.
Vipassana meditation had made me shock-proof and so I derived satisfaction in the fact that an English newspaper like The Times had devoted a full column to my work, even though it was only to shower abuses. At least, it had taken notice of my work.
The next month, when Hussain held an exhibition of his drawings sketched with the same felt-tip pens, the same critic praised him to the skies. The headline said - Innovation in art.
That day I laughed heartily. Crying would have been futile. I had chosen my own battlefield. My limitation was that I had neither bow and arrow nor a sword and yet I was required to struggle through a life-long battle. There was no point in blaming fate or circumstances. I was charting out my own destiny. The bottom line was - the buck stops right here…
After attending the Vipassana camp, my relationship with my family too had improved. For the past several months, I had been going home just to spend the nights sleeping on the terrace.
I had started to keep a close watch on the family pulse and started spending quite some time solving the day-to-day problems at home. I was contributing as much as possible to my family but it seemed, they wanted my head. They knew well that I never wanted to fall into the rut of mediocrity. Yet…
Again a photograph of a girl was placed before me. This must have been the thirteenth girl! It was evident that everyone in my family was fed up with me. It was also evident that escaping the unlucky number thirteen was not going to be easy.
As usual, I looked at the passport-size photograph. “Not bad. The girl is comely too,” I said and found a new loophole. “But where will I keep her after marriage?”
The question was relevant.
Seven of us were living in a single room. On top of that my uncle and aunt had put up a partition and occupied half the area. I had to go up to the terrace to sleep.
Instead of throwing a fit, my mother confronted me with my own words. “Have you liked the girl?”
“I admit that she seems from a good family.”
“Then why deny yourself the richness and satisfaction of family life?”
“But…”
“Leave the rest to Allah.”
“Agreed,” I insisted shrewdly. “But maa, I won’t marry till I won’t get an independent house.”
I knew that our bank balance was zero. (In fact, we did not have a bank account.) My uncle’s salary helped our domestic cart roll on. Under the circumstances, it was impossible to find a room in Bombay. In the sixties, fifty thousand rupees was the going rate for one room.
Pleased with myself, I started off for Colaba. My studio was still near the Radio Club. The DRI headquarters were also located there. (Above the Waldorf Hotel.) Khan emerged from there, got into his jeep and went straight to the GPO. Half an hour later, he was seated opposite a clerk on the third floor. His finger moved down the list of names in the payroll register.
Khan was not interested in anyone’s salary. He was just looking for a name. So far, he had scanned four pages. “Sir!” The clerk interjected before he turned to the fifth page, “Can I be of any help?”
He thought for a while and said, “Ganpat Chalke.”
“What about him?”
“Does he work here?”
“Yes, why?”
He closed the register and looked at the clerk. “What do you know about him?”
“He has been working here since twelve years.”
“What else?”
“What else do you want to know?”
“Has he been ever accused in the past, any charge-sheet?”
The clerk moved his head in the negative.
“What is his designation?”
“He was appointed last year as the officer in our export section.”
“There are ten other officers there. What does he do?” Khan asked.
“He handles the Africa-bound parcels.”
“Where would
he be now?”
The clerk pointed a finger.
Khan turned his head. There were piles of parcels as well as twenty sets of tables and chairs in the large hall. The employees of the export-booking department were busy with their work. Ganpat Chalke was jotting down something in a file, smoking a bidi.
“Yeah…?” Ganpat did not even bother to lift his head and look at the guest who had just dropped in. He remained occupied in his work, as if a routine visitor had come to see him.
Khan placed his identity card between Ganpat’s eyes and the file. Below the table, Ganpat’s legs started shaking. A dark cloud passed over his face as he jerked his head up. Khan immediately noticed.
From Ganpat’s looks, he concluded – Age around forty-five years, medium height, thick black handlebar moustache and dark skin. He was wearing a bush-shirt and trousers.
“Are you Ganpat Chalke?”
He instantly nodded, “Yes.”
“Is it true that you were appointed to the transit division last year, around five months back?”
He nodded again.
“Congratulations,” Khan flashed a smile and offered him his hand. Ganpat looked at him wide-eyed. Then slowly, a radiant smile filled his face.
Khan withdrew his hand without shaking and announced a fictitious reason for his visit, “The government is pleased with your work. I’ve been asked to make some investigations before recommending your promotion. By the way, this is just a formality.”
As if coming to his senses all of a sudden, Ganpat jumped up from his seat and stuttered, “Sssir…tttea…cccoffee…” Khan smiled, glanced at his pock-marked face and started for the door. Ganpat just tingled all over.
There was a glow on the DRI chief’s face when the information about Ganpat Chalke was placed on his table in a neatly typed folder. There remained no doubt whatsoever about the facts provided by Ali. His move was correct.
The transit parcels from Dubai containing smuggled watches were being manipulated in connivance with Ganpat. The old question raised its head once again – how? It was necessary to keep an eye on Ganpat to know the answer.
Four days left for the ship from Dubai to arrive. Sound clues had to be extracted from Ganpat in these four days in order to cage Iqbal. Utmost care had to be taken. The slightest hint of danger would make both the birds fly away.
Khan became Ganpat’s shadow from that day onwards. In fact, there was also a need to keep Iqbal under watch. The chief also wanted it; but Khan did not feel it urgent at this stage. For Iqbal was intelligent. He would certainly find out if someone tailed him day and night. If that came to pass, DRI’s game plan would collapse.
(Though the insulted customs collector Sonawale had been explicitly told not to meddle with the case, he did exactly that to grab the laurels. He had unleashed a special officer like a sniffer dog to keep track of Iqbal.)
Khan also guessed that Ganpat was a novice to smuggling and therefore unguarded. It would be possible to know Iqbal’s movements from Ganpat’s activities. Therefore, he focused his full attention on Ganpat.
Khan would stalk him in plainclothes from the moment he left home to catch the suburban train. Ganpat lived in Kurla. On his way to the station, he would stop at a paan shop. Khan too would stop at an appropriate distance. He would proceed further after taking a pinch of lime and a packet of tobacco. Khan too would follow behind.
Khan looked impressive in black sunglasses but he would try to disguise his appearance, if required, by using make-up; so that he did not attract unnecessary attention, though it was not difficult to shadow Ganpat.
Ganpat’s train used to start from Kurla and terminate at the Bori Bunder station. Khan too would mingle with the crowd after alighting from the bogie behind Ganpat’s. (The GPO’s imposing heritage building is close to Bori Bunder.)
Ganpat would walk up to the building and climb the stairs. Khan would take up a position under an appropriate shaded place behind a tree or a verandah of a shop. He would remain there until lunchtime. The moment Ganpat came out in the recess for a walk or to meet someone, he would become alert.
Like a shadow separates itself from a man during the night, Khan too would leave him and go home. But before going to bed, he would unfailingly prepare the day’s report of Ganpat’s movements for the chief.
He followed Ganpat for two days. The result was zero. How could that be? If Ganpat were involved in bootlegging, one would have gotten at least a couple of clues from him by now. There was every possibility that one of the members of the gang would establish contact with him, but so far no one had turned up near Ganpat.
Only forty-eight hours were left for the ship from Dubai to arrive. It had now become necessary for Iqbal to approach Ganpat to make vital arrangements. At eleven in the morning, he made a telephone call from the Khar railway station to the GPO. He was using a public telephone booth. Waiting for Ganpat to come on the line, his eyes rested on a man standing in the queue for a railway ticket at some distance. That man turned twice and looked in his direction. Iqbal did not attach much importance to him.
“What’s the news?” he asked on hearing Ganpat’s voice.
“Cool.”
“Anything new?”
“No,” he said and suddenly remembered. “I’m to be promoted. There will be a raise in my salary, in my status too.” His words emerged with a force that belied his frail body.
“Really!”
“A man from the DRI had come to give me the good news.”
Iqbal was alarmed, “what has the DRI got to do with your promotion?”
“Why? The post parcels arrive here via the customs.” He was speaking into the receiver. “And the DRI is above the customs. What is surprising if it recommends…!”
The only surprising part is that that you are not worth the promotion- Iqbal wanted to say but kept quiet. Silence prevailed for a while at both the ends.
“Iqbal!”
“Yes.”
“I thought the line got cut,” said Ganpat, then added softly. “By the way, do you suspect…”
“I’ll tell you when we meet during the lunch break. But remember, don’t try to approach me if I turn away,” he said.
Putting down the receiver, Ganpat was puzzled as several questions confronted him. Was the good news given by the DRI a ploy? Had it spread a net to get him? Had someone come to know of the bungling in the transit department?
At one in the afternoon, he had his lunch from his tiffin and then went to meet Iqbal. He came up to the staircase making his way through the tables and chairs. Here the clerk of the accounts section accosted him.
“Where to, Ganpat?” he asked, climbing down the stairs with him.
“Tea stall.”
“What’s wrong with our canteen?”
“They serve coloured water instead of tea.”
“In fact, I too have stopped visiting our canteen. For the past one month, I’ve been going across the road. But today, you will have to offer me a cup.”
Ganpat’s eyes twitched. “Anything special?”
“I’ll disclose it if you promise to treat me.”
“I’ll treat you to cream biscuits with the tea. But what’s the occasion?”
“There’s an inquiry going on you.”
Both had emerged out of the GPO building and stopped on the pavement. Ganpat was looking at the clerk’s face inquiringly. An inquiry meant two things. Good or bad.
“Who told you?” Ganpat asked, his face ashen.
“A fellow from the DRI had come,” he said, lowering his voice to whisper. “Hope you haven’t done any hanky panky?”
Ganpat laughed nervously and said, “I’m getting a promotion.”
“Really!” The clerk stared steadily. “In that case only cream biscuits won’t do.”
“Let me get the increment, I’ll treat you to a cake.”
Both proceeded on their way, chatting. A flicker of suspicion crossed Ganpat’s mind and he realized it was necessary to be cautious.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second and Iqbal turned his face away. Ganpat got the confirmation that someone was monitoring his movements. He quietly proceeded with the clerk and sat down in the shade of the roadside stall.
Iqbal’s eyes were fixed on Khan and Khan was watching Ganpat. Earlier, Iqbal had spotted the customs collector Sonawale’s official at Khar railway station, but he had not cared to give a second look. In those days there were no direct trains for Bori Bunder. One had to change at Bandra.
The official appeared again when he got down at Bandra station. Once again he ignored the shadow stalking him. He crossed the overbridge and came to the central platform. The official stood at some distance partly covered by a pillar. Now, Iqbal smelt a rat. Moreover, that official committed the folly of looking at him audaciously. Iqbal was instantly alert. He immediately thought of a plan to shake him off.
When the train for Bori Bunder arrived, Iqbal discreetly boarded a compartment. The official boarded the next one. As soon as the train started, Iqbal got off on the platform. Now it was not safe to travel by train any more. He took a bus from outside Bandra station and arrived at Bori Bunder.