by Aabid Surti
“This time I’ll be the one taking the risk.”
“You mean…”
“When you come out last, I’ll be inside.” Iqbal explained, “and finish off the work alone in the night.”
“But how will you come out?” By this time, Ganpat’s dilemma had been resolved for some unknown reasons. He wanted to be reassured before getting involved with Iqbal.
“When you leave, tell the peon, you will be coming early tomorrow. He will offer you the key.”
“What if he doesn’t give it?”
“Call him at eight in the morning, get the door opened and send him for a cup of tea. Any more questions?”
Ganpat shook his head.
Iqbal entered Ganpat Chalke’s department at exactly 5.40 p.m. His men had dumped nine parcels after him. All these parcels contained stones. Each parcel, along with the packing, weighed ten kilos.
Since the foreign-bound parcels were received here, there was no reason for anyone to suspect Iqbal. He had come with the parcels posing as a tradesman. Moreover, it being the closing time, all the employees were preparing to leave.
Ganpat was deceiving himself. What is the risk? Nothing. Where do I figure in the picture? Nowhere. What proof do the DRI have? Fuck D-R-I.
As if Iqbal were a genuine customer, Ganpat opened his register. By that time, Iqbal’s eyes had spotted a safe place to hide. The nearby pile of Hong Kong bound parcels was the tallest. No one would detect even an elephant crouching behind that pile.
Slowly, like the sun hiding behind clouds, he moved towards the pile and slipped behind it. After a while, the employees of the export division left for their homes.
The peon was in a hurry to go home but was helpless. He came to Ganpat’s table, “Kai Saiba? Are you determined to work overtime today?”
“Oh, no,” he said and started cleaning up the desk. “But, tomorrow I’ll have to.”
By the time he came up to the door with the peon, he realized that the superintendent was still working. From the heap of files on his desk, it appeared that he would have to do a night shift today!
Ganpat felt his knees go weak. He was in a catch-22 situation. He could neither go out nor come in now. How could he leave, deserting Iqbal?
What if the super got up to inspect the parcels? And, what would the peon think if he went back in after having cleaned the desk? He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
Reading his predicament on his pock-marked face, the peon asked, “Saiba, aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m fine, fine.”
“Then, why don’t you leave?”
“I’m in a dilemma…the chief is still working,” he conjured up a reply, “I may as well finish some more work. Else, I’ll have to come early tomorrow.”
Juggling these thoughts, he returned to his chair. The super looked up from his desk. As their eyes met, Ganpat gave a sheepish smile. A pain in the ass, he muttered.
Sitting on his chair, he opened the register again. He started entering the details of the parcels that had arrived by the morning ship. That was his work, his responsibility.
Iqbal was hiding behind the fortress of parcels. He felt luck was not on his side today.
The sun dove. The table lamp on the super’s desk glowed. Ganpat got up and put on the switch. The tube light over his head came on. With the light came fear. He started shivering. He had seen a head appear at the door for a few seconds. Was he Khan, the one who had interviewed him?
He was right. Khan was patiently keeping a watch like a predator lying in wait.
Chapter 38
Ganpat normally left the office every day at 5:30 p.m. He would come out of the stately building of the GPO and catch the local train for Kurla from the Bori Bunder railway station. However, the routine was altered today. Naturally, Khan, who had been relentlessly shadowing him since the morning, got suspicious.
He came up to the third floor. Peeping through the door, he saw that Ganpat was busy making entries in the register on his desk. At some distance, his boss was engrossed in files under a table lamp.
Both were sincerely working overtime. The sight disappointed Khan. He had expected to find at least Ganpat tampering with the parcels. If that were the case, Khan would have won the jackpot.
New doubts cropped up in Khan’s mind. Is Ganpat not directly involved in smuggling of watches? Is he innocent? The answers to these questions were not simple. He came down and stood in a dark corner adding up all the questions and filtering all the replies. Still there was some hope at the end of the tunnel.
Exactly at 9.40 p.m., the table lamp on the super’s desk was switched off. The circle of light faded. Before going out, he stopped near Ganpat’s desk.
“Seems the workload is extra?”
He got up respectfully.
“Come early tomorrow.”
For the first time today, Ganpat chuckled. “Sir, by your permission, you have really spoiled my habits.”
“How come?”
“Who was it that harped about not keeping today’s work pending for tomorrow?”
“Of course, I had said it,” the super flashed a big smile. “But that was not meant for you. You are an exception, Ganpat.” He patted his back and added, “Come, it’s already late.”
“On one condition,” he said, grabbing the opportunity, “If you allow me to come early tomorrow.”
The super smiled from ear to ear.
Ganpat closed the register and proceeded with him. As they neared the door, the super himself gave instructions to the peon, “Mr. Chalke will come at eight tomorrow.”
“Ganpat,” he remembered, “you live somewhere near Vikhroli, right?”
“ Kurla, Sir.”
“Your house is on my way. I can drop you there.”
Both went down the stairs, chatting on the way. In the meantime, the peon closed the windows and the door and while coming down to the second floor he saw Ganpat alone. The superintendent had gone to the toilet.
“Where do you live?” Ganpat asked.
“Virar.”
“That’s quite far,” he told the peon with regret. “Will you be able to come on time tomorrow?”
“Of course, but with some difficulty. If you don’t mind…”
“Yes?”
“Keep the key with you.”
Ganpat slipped the key into his pocket.
Khan watched the peon emerge from the main entrance of the GPO building and head towards Churchgate station to catch the Virar local, chirping- mera joota hai Japani, a song from Raj Kapoor’s movie.
After a few minutes, Ganpat appeared, accompanied by the super. The chief affectionately made him sit in the front, himself taking the driver’s seat. The car started and moved away.
Khan sizzled, hissed, sputtered, felt like banging his head against the wall. It was not daylight; else, his face would have become the poster of his agony. The night was dark and dirty. There was no moon, no stars. If there was anything in it for him, there was total frustration.
The ship from Dubai had arrived, the parcels had arrived, yet none of the thugs had so far contacted Ganpat, nor had Ganpat’s behaviour been suspect. Whatever misgiving was left had faded away today. There was now no point in shadowing Ganpat. Suddenly he felt empty like a postmortem body and called it a day.
As he took the first step towards Bori Bunder station, he saw some movement on the opposite footpath. Someone had slipped behind the trunk of a tree.
Cautiously he crossed the road, came near the tree and looked in amazement. The crack-shot officer of the customs department, D’Souza, stood before him. A feeling of dismay was writ large on his face for having been exposed.
“This isn’t a fun place to hang out, buddy?” Khan frowned, looking into his shrewd gray eyes.
“To be honest,” he admitted sulkily, “I was asked to keep an eye on Iqbal.”
“But the collector was warned not to meddle in this case.”
“True, but I’ve to fol
low the directive.”
The last fortnight had been demented. Until now, Khan had been blaming his own intelligence and fate for his failure. Now, he realized that the collector’s foolish face-saving action had made Iqbal aware of the DRI’s moves. Now what?
“When did you see Iqbal last?” he began afresh, trying to control his rage.
“He was here just before five in the evening.”
“Exactly where?”
“Near that pigeons’ enclosure.”
“Then?”
“He suddenly vanished.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I suspect that he must be somewhere around here.”
“It’s quarter to ten now,” Khan asked again looking at his wristwatch. “Why should he be here?”
“The parcels from Seychelles have arrived.”
“True.”
“He must be having a key to the export section,” then he added one more word. “Duplicate.”
Khan was alarmed. It hadn’t struck him so far. There was every possibility of Iqbal entering the GPO after the departure of staff. “Alright,” Khan said, taking a quick decision. “You watch here; I’ll take a look on the third floor.”
Khan climbed the stairs, came to the third floor and looked at the door. A strong lock from Aligarh was dangling on it. Inside, Iqbal was sitting comfortably behind the wall of parcels for Hong Kong. He was in no hurry to finish the job. The whole night was at his disposal.
He remained seated quietly until two hours after the departure of the super and Ganpat. This was a precautionary measure. It was entirely possible that someone had forgotten something and would come back to retrieve it! The chief himself might emerge grinning! If he had an extra key, Iqbal could be caught like an ordinary thief.
He waited for half an hour more and came out at the stroke of midnight. He had a small pencil torch, which spreads dim light in a limited area. Moving nimbly on his feet, he came near the pile of parcels for Seychelles.
At that time, Khan was yawning, waiting in a dark corner of the passage outside the closed door, lying in wait for Iqbal’s arrival. His gut feeling told him that the mouse would not fall into the trap because it had smelt it. His guess was right and yet he was wrong.
Iqbal disengaged the tin ribbons, with the seals intact, from each of the parcels, removed the watches and replaced them with stones. He placed all the watches in the boxes in which he had brought stones and closed all of them. But he placed the Seychelles parcels, seals intact, where they belonged.
Khan had looked several times at his wristwatch, and finally looked at it for the last time. It was five in the morning. He gave up hope. He quietly went down.
For Iqbal, this was the time to offer the morning prayer. However, before that, he needed water to complete the ritual of washing his limbs and face.
Carrying the mini torch, he went around the large hall in search of water. Soon, he found an earthen pot in a corner. He cleansed his body with the water, and finding a clean spot, settled down to offer namaaz.
Gradually, the windowpanes started gleaming. The sun was raising its head somewhere in the east. Darkness was dispersing. When the door opened at eight, he was sitting safely behind the fortress of parcels for Hong Kong. He saw from a small slit between two parcels that Ganpat was marching toward him in quick steps.
“Iqbal,” he asked coming close. “How will you take out the parcels?”
“My men must have arrived at the gate.”
“Call them - now.”
Iqbal immediately got out and dashed for the door. His three men were waiting for him in a taxi before eight in the morning. Seeing Iqbal coming out of the entrance, they got out. Iqbal sat besides the driver. The three men rushed upstairs. They were Dagdu, Michael and Sadru. They had worn postmen’s uniforms. Each of them had a postbag hanging from his shoulder and a sack in his hand.
Each of them dumped three parcels in each sack, returned in less than fifteen minutes and took their seat in the taxi. One sack was placed on the overhead carrier, while two were kept in the trunk. The taxi sped in the direction of the godown at Dongri.
The chief of the DRI was baffled.
Khan had kept a watch over Ganpat for another week. After the ship for Seychelles docked at Bombay port, all the suspect parcels were loaded on it with their seals intact. (This time, they were stuffed with stones.)
No parcel was missing. All the seals were intact. Impossible! The chief was seething in anger. He had no doubt that the traffickers must have employed some ingenious technique.
Every month, two ships arrived from Dubai. The interval was for a fortnight; but this time, the DRI chief himself was going to the front. He was to leave his air-conditioned cabin and storm the exports division of the post office because he was confident that Ali had given him correct information. He put forward the same argument on observing Khan’s hopes sinking. Yet Khan did not look convinced.
He argued, “Sir, even if what you say is true, at least Ganpat Chalke should have committed some mistake. I’d shadowed him for twelve days. He met no one, no thug contacted him, nor did he visit any suspicious place.”
“He might have come to know that he is under watch! He must have become cautious.”
“Suppose you’re right, but then what about the parcels? Why were none of the seals broken?”
“Because,” he banged his hand on the table, “this time I’m going to break the seals.”
Khan just stared at him wide-eyed.
People gawk at me whenever I reply to their question about my marriage. They normally ask - Aabidbhai was yours a love marriage or arranged? My answer is - Surprise marriage.
In fact, something like that did happen. When I was returning one evening from my studio after a hard day’s work, I came to know from my neighbour at the Dongri newspaper stall that I was engaged to be married.
I did not believe him because my marriage was a far-fetched dream. It was impossible for my family to fulfill my condition. (I had told them that I wouldn’t marry until I didn’t have a separate room of my own.)
When I moved further and came near our building, another friend congratulated me. Now I was alarmed. Had someone in the family won a lottery ticket? Only then was it possible for them to buy a room for me.
Yes, it was a bonanza. My uncle worked at the dock. He had served honestly for ten years in the Ghadiyal Godi (Bhaucha Dhakka), known for its corruption. His employer, pleased with his honesty, had made him a 25 per cent partner in the business. No one knew this secret.
The same month, when the year’s account was cleared, he got his share - sixty thousand rupees. With this money, he bought me a room.
The elders of the family had kept their word. Now, there was no way for me to wriggle out of the marriage trap. The image of the photograph of the girl shown last floated before my eyes as I climbed the stairs. I stopped for a few moments and took a spot decision – I must fulfill all my responsibilities with full commitment.
Exactly a week later, the ship from Dubai, M.V. Damra, belonging to the British India Company, docked in Bombay. All the post parcels were dropped at the export section of the GPO on the third floor after passing through the foreign post office. Before that, the DRI chief and Khan had arrived and were chatting with the superintendent.
The sorting of the parcels began. Parcels of different countries were collected in different piles. On one side was the heap of parcels bound for Singapore, while on the other side there was the stockpile of parcels for Japan. On the third side was one for Hong Kong, while on the fourth side was the stack of parcels for Seychelles.
Ganpat Chalke was in charge of the parcels for Seychelles. He was examining the labels on the parcels and his legs were trembling in his pants. The presence of the DRI chief had shaken him to the core.
After the collating was over, the chief and Khan got up and walked over to Ganpat. As if he was naive, he asked, “these parcels are for which country?”
“They have
come from Dubai and are bound for Seychelles.”
“What’s the content?”
“Surgical instruments.”
“Who’s the party?”
“Sheikh Abdul Malik.” Ganpat read out the name on the label.
“Now tell me Mr. Chalke, if the same Sheikh had sent something last month.”
Pretending ignorance, Ganpat opened the register on his table and ran his finger through the listed entries. He lifted his head after some time and stated, “Last month, he had sent two consignments of nine parcels.”
“What did they contain?”
He again pretended to check the register and said, “The same thing, Sir, surgical instruments.”
By now, the super too had finished his work and stood between the DRI chief and Khan. All the past entries were being examined one after another. The chief’s curiosity increased by the minute. The sheikh from Dubai had been exporting to a party in Seychelles only surgical instruments for over one and a half years now.
“It seems that the surgeons in Seychelles are in the habit of discarding the surgical instruments after one use!” the chief commented sarcastically, looking at Ganpat. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t be importing by the dozens every month!”