But there must be some vegetable that is used in small quantities in all bhajis, I said. Surely this vegetable is less useful than onion. So please tell us the name of that vegetable and then that will be the answer.
The pao-bhaji-walla looked at me like I was mad. You are a stupid bugger, he said. Even after all your schooling you are a stupid bugger.
I was quite angry now. How everyone can call me a stupid bugger, I do not understand. But I held my tongue and touched my round head and suffered in silence for the sake of the truth.
The pao-bhaji-walla continued. Quantity of vegetable has no bearing on usefulness of vegetable, he said. I may use a small amount of chillies and large amounts of tomatoes, but no one can say that the chillies are less useful than the tomato.
Then the tomato is less useful than the chilli, I said. There, that must be the answer. That is logical. If the chilli is not less useful than the tomato, then it must be more useful, and therefore the tomato is less useful. So that is the answer. Tomato is the most useless vegetable, and so we can safely reduce tomato production and increase onion production, thereby solving the onion problem. See, I am not such a stupid bugger after all.
The pao-bhaji-walla shook his head and laughed in my face. No, he said, you are not a stupid bugger after all. Actually you are a stupid bastard. Not bugger, but bastard.
Now his helper laughed at me also, and I lost my temper. I reached out to slap the helper, but Iqbal pushed my hand away, and in doing so I lost my balance and fell sideways. I fell onto the bucket that held the dirty plates, and immediately the bucket broke and all the plates fell to the pavement. Of course, the plates were all stainless steel so they did not break, but the bucket was quite broken.
So immediately me and Iqbal ran from there.
6
We ran onto the main road and into another lane some distance away from our lane. When we stopped running, we looked around and noticed that it was a lane to which we had not been in the past. This was quite unusual, because Iqbal and me are quite familiar with our neighboring lanes. Except for this lane of course.
The lane was not even a proper lane. Proper lanes have exits on both ends, but this lane was a dead-end. In fact it was more like a courtyard than a lane. Perhaps that is why we had not been here prior to this occasion. We decided to stand there for little time. Let the pao-bhaji-walla and his helper forget about us and then we may venture back to our lane. So we stood there, me and Iqbal, my brother in life.
Presently I felt something at the back of my feet, and then we heard a voice. The voice was politely asking us to move our feet. We turned, and in turning we noticed that the voice came from a sweeper. By sweeper I mean the fellow who sweeps the street with a broom.
This sweeper was quite young. Much younger than us, but perhaps older than our children, all of whom were approximately college age. He was clean shaven and he wore spectacles.
It was not a problem for us to move, so we both moved and allowed the sweeper to continue with his work. After all, who are we to stop a young sweeper from doing his work? Besides, we had bigger problems. Our so-called expert in vegetable comparison turned out to give us no good answer.
I complained to Iqbal about the situation. This pursuit of truth, I said, is not so easy. In fact it has already caused us lot of problems. First with the schoolmaster, and now with the pao-bhaji-walla. And I do not like how all these people are calling me stupid bugger and what-not.
Iqbal said I should calm down.
I said what calm down? This is getting too much. We should have just downgraded the word from pursuit to acceptance. Then we would be home right now and drinking tea on my balcony and watching the rain.
Iqbal said no, that is not true. Firstly, it is not raining. And secondly, maybe you would have been home drinking tea, but I would still have the onion problem to take care of.
I felt bad now and said sorry.
Iqbal said don’t worry. No need for sorry. Remember, when I was thinking it was too much, you encouraged me and said that all problems will be solved as byproduct of pursuing the truth. So now I must encourage you in return. It is only right. We are brothers in life after all.
I felt much better now. Little bit encouraged even. I smiled and nodded. Okay then, I said. What next?
Iqbal looked at the ground. He did not know.
I too was not sure. Maybe we simply ask a different pao-bhaji-walla, I said.
No use, Iqbal said. They will all say the same thing. More chillies here, less tomatoes here, extra turmeric here, and so on and so forth. We will simply create more confusion and more trouble.
Yes, Iqbal was right. Plus, I did not want any more trouble with pao-bhaji-wallas. It could result in some inconvenience for my own pao-bhaji consumption. Then again I felt something at the back of my feet and I turned and again it was the sweeper. This time I got little annoyed.
Why are you sweeping at our feet when the entire courtyard is there for you to sweep? I asked the sweeper.
The sweeper looked at me through his spectacles and smiled. Why are you standing where I must sweep when the entire courtyard is there for you to stand? he said.
That is not the point, I said. We are standing here, so you must sweep here only after we move.
The sweeper shook his head. Who are you to say that standing takes priority over sweeping? he said. In fact, it may even be the other way around.
No, I said. It cannot be that way. If that were the case, then everywhere there would be sweeping and nowhere would there be standing.
The sweeper laughed. That makes no sense, he said. You are quite a silly bugger.
I was getting increasingly irritated. If he had called me a stupid bugger or a silly bastard then I would have slapped him definitely. But since he only said silly bugger, I waited. Soon he would say something silly, and then I would slap this bugger.
Now Iqbal put his hand on my shoulder again to calm me. I became calm.
The sweeper smiled at me. Sorry, he said. I did not mean to make you upset. I only want to do my work properly. Actually I have finished sweeping elsewhere. Only this place is still dirty, and that is why I am sweeping at your feet.
Now I felt little sorry. I said I too am sorry. Me and Iqbal, my brother in life, are engaged in a very important question for which we have found no answer, and so I was already little upset to begin with. Sorry, I said again.
What is the question, the sweeper asked.
I explained about the onion problem and the resulting question of how to pass judgment on the vegetables and then how the pao-bhaji-walla had said judgment is not passable. I did not mention the breakages of the schoolmaster’s tea set and the pao-bhaji-walla’s bucket.
So what is the problem, the sweeper asked.
Funny man you are, I said. The problem is apparent. How are we to pass judgment on the relative value of vegetables if judgment is not passable?
I do not see any apparent problem, the sweeper said, because it is a stupid matter that you are worried about.
How can it be stupid? I said. It is an answer that is required for the further pursuit of the truth and the ultimate resolution of the onion problem.
It is a pointless question, said the sweeper. What action will you take if you get an answer to your stupid pointless question?
I was confused. I looked at Iqbal. He remained quiet.
The sweeper leaned on his tall broom handle. See, he said. Let us say the answer is that tomato is less important than onion. In that case, what will you do? What action will you take? How will you reduce the tomato crop and increase onion crop? You think you will run around and tell farmers to replace tomato land with onion plantations? And even if you do, you think they will listen to a silly bugger like you?
I was about to reply in haste but then Iqbal piped in.
No, he said. We have no action plan.
Then it is a pointless question, said the sweeper. If you have no action planned with the answer, then what use is the answer?<
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But it is the truth, I said. The truth has its own plan. It is a plan in itself. That is the teaching of Gandhiji. And we are Gandhians.
The sweeper shook his head. No, he said. If there is no action, then the truth is useless, which means there is no truth. Just like if I do not sweep, the street will not get clean.
I was quite confused now, but Iqbal was nodding his head, so I kept quiet. Maybe Iqbal understood what this bugger was saying. I would ask Iqbal later. I did not want to embarrass myself in front of a sweeper.
The sweeper looked at me. Do you understand, he said.
Now I was forced to answer. Of course, I said.
What is your understanding, the sweeper said.
I breathed deeply before speaking. Then I spoke. You mean the truth is like the broom, I said. It is meaningless if not used to clean the dirty street. And so we must first find the dirty street to clean, and only then should we worry about the broom.
Iqbal looked at me in silence.
The sweeper also stared at me for some time. Then he smiled. You are a funny bugger, he said. Go on, move your feet so I can sweep.
7
The sweeper left us in peace after that. We stood quietly for some more time, then we carefully looked out onto the main road to see if the pao-bhaji-walla or his helper were keeping watch for us. It looked clear, so we moved out of the courtyard.
By now it was getting quite hot, so I looked around for some shelter. I saw that a local bank was open, and I could see through the glass walls that there was a long line of people standing in front of the teller windows.
Ah good, I said. The bank is quite busy. Let us go sit in the air-conditioned waiting area. We can safely pass some time there in the cool air without any trouble.
Iqbal gave me a look, but then he also looked at the sun and finally said okay.
So we walked into the air-conditioned bank and sat on two chairs in the waiting area.
We must think of a possible action, I said. A possible action that will advance us on the path of the pursuit of truth.
Yes, said Iqbal, but the sweeper was correct. We have no plan to adjust crop plantation patterns. So the question of passing judgment amongst vegetables is definitely pointless.
Then what question can we ask in pursuit of the solution? I said this loudly, and the man sitting next to us in the waiting area made a face at me like I was talking too loudly.
Iqbal pulled on his beard like he does when he is thinking. We must take one step in reverse, he said. We must keep going in reverse until we find a solution that can be acted upon by us.
I did not follow, and I said so.
Iqbal explained. See, he said, the schoolmaster said that two possible options are there for increase of land area devoted to onion production. One is to replace other crops with onion crops. And the other is to find more available land.
Now I understood. Okay, I said, and since we have no action plan even if we can pass judgment on vegetables, we must therefore discard that option and pursue the truth along the path of the other option.
Iqbal smiled and nodded his head while still touching his beard.
I too was happy at my fine display of logical process. But then quickly the happiness disappeared when I remembered the words of the schoolmaster. I reminded Iqbal of this.
You are right, said Iqbal, the schoolmaster did in fact tell us that not much unused land is available for onion production.
Yes, I said. So we must revert to the previous option. I spoke the next words loudly, because I was proud. After all, it was myself who had suggested the previous option. The option to reclaim land from Bangladesh, Pakistan, and China. So I proclaimed this loudly.
When I did so, the entire waiting room turned to look at me. I was still quite proud, but then Iqbal tapped me on the shoulder and said that if we make noise, we may be thrown from the bank. After all, he said, we are not bank customers.
I agreed, and I kept quiet for some time. After some more time I noticed that the man sitting next to me was staring at me for quite some time now. At first it was a look that I recognized—the same look that other people gave me just before calling me a stupid bugger or silly bastard or some other pornographic name. But now it was a different look, a look like he was thinking about something involving me. Not pornographic involvement of course, but schematic involvement. By that I mean he was thinking of some scheme involving me.
So I waited for him to say something, and presently he did exactly that.
You are interested in reclaiming land from Pakistan and Bangladesh and China? he asked me.
Perhaps, I said.
Then you must be a true patriot, he said.
Perhaps, I said.
The man shook his head quite violently. Not perhaps, but definitely, he said.
Okay, I said, definitely then.
You are Bose-ian? he said.
I said no, Gandhi-ian.
Then your statements are contradictory, he said.
No-no, of course not, I said. Then I thought for one minute. What statements? I asked.
That you want to reclaim land from Pakistan and Bangladesh and China.
How contradictory? There is no contradiction.
But of course.
No. How?
Because Gandhi himself was the cause of the delivery of land to Pakistan and Bangladesh and China.
No no, I said. Pakistan was created by Jinnah and the British. In fact, Gandhi was against it. He wanted to make Jinnah the first prime minister, but it was not allowed. And then both the Indo-China war as well as the creation of Bangladesh were post-Bapu. So how could Gandhi have delivered land to China and Bangladesh after his death?
Never mind all that, said the man. That is all history. It does not matter now.
Funny man you are, I said. Just now you’re saying that Gandhiji did this and Gandhiji did that. If that is not history, then what else is it? You are talking about history only. Without history, this conversation makes no sense. And remember the saying, I said, those who do not remember history will forget it.
The man was quiet for one or two minutes. Then he spoke again. That is not the saying, he said. The saying is this: those who remember too much history will keep doing the same things again and again like stupid buggers. Therefore it is best to leave history alone.
Now I was quiet. Some logic was there in his statements, yes.
Do you see my logic, the man said.
Perhaps, I said.
Okay then. Listen to me now. Based on your previously uttered statements, I believe you are a man of action, yes?
I immediately became very happy. Action, I thought, is exactly what we are in search of at this point.
Yes, I said. Very much so. Without action, there is no truth. Just like how without the broom there is no dirty street.
The man looked at me in that earlier way for just a moment. First I thought he was going to call me some names, but then he simply laughed.
I am a member of a group, he said. A group of men of action. And one or two women of action also, but mostly men for now. We are having trouble recruiting females at this point.
What is this group, I said. I was getting interested. The talk of action was making me active. Either that or the pao-bhaji was creating action in my stomach.
It is a Bose-ian group, he said.
You mean it is followers of Netaji? I asked.
The man smiled. Indeed, he said, we are disciples of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose.
I nodded in respect. He was a great leader, I said. It is unfortunate that he disappeared during the World War Two action. I shook my head in further respect. He died in a plane crash over Taiwan area, I said, that is the rumor.
The man stopped smiling. He moved close to me. Then he moved even closer until his mouth was close to my ear. No, he said.
No means what? I asked. I was quite uncomfortable with this extreme closeness.
Netaji is with us, he said.
I nodded i
n respect. Yes, I said, and Bapu as well as the other great freedom fighters. They will always be with us.
No, no, he said. I mean with us in real form, not spiritual form.
I stared at him like he was a madman, which he probably might be.
How can you say such things, I asked. It is impossible.
How can it be impossible when it is true? the man said.
That sounded logical. If it was true, then it could not be impossible. I thought for one or two minutes. Then I spoke. What proof do you have of Netaji being here in real form? I said.
He smiled. I have all the proof that is needed for my satisfaction, he said.
What is that proof? How are you sure that Netaji is alive today? I asked.
Because, the man said, I know him personally and very well. Come, I will take you to him and you will see the proof for yourself.
8
So now we stood once more in the street. Me, Iqbal, and this madman who promised to take us to Netaji, the great Indian freedom fighter who is rumored to have disappeared in the skies above Taiwan in 1945. Or more precisely, in the ashes of the plane that was destroyed in Taiwanese region in 1945. Of course, the body was never recovered, and there is always some madman who says Netaji is alive somewhere. I just did not think I would actually meet such a madman.
Come, said the man, it is close by. He will be done with his morning routine, and will be free to see us before lunchtime.
I thought about lunchtime and felt quite happy, so I followed him. I looked at Iqbal, who was also following, but more slowly. Iqbal gave me a look that meant be careful, we are following a madman. I smiled at Iqbal, my brother in life.
The madman led us back down the main road quite fast. Then suddenly he turned left and we followed him and immediately found ourselves in the very same courtyard where we had previously been hiding. I looked back at Iqbal in surprise, and I could tell that he too was surprised.
The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel Page 3