The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel

by Zubin J. Shroff

  There he is, said the madman. He is just finishing. Let us wait.

  Where? I said. I looked around but I could see no one, just the sweeper.

  There, said the madman. He pointed to the sweeper.

  You are a real madman, I said. I should slap you right here and now.

  9

  Of course I did not slap the madman. I was a Gandhian, after all. As I said, nonviolence is part and parcel of being Gandhian. Besides, we were on an active pursuit of truth, and we were now taking action towards that pursuit. So, in the interest of truth, we must follow through on what this madman was saying.

  The madman smiled and folded his hands and said namaste and bowed to the sweeper. The sweeper gestured to him to indicate that bowing was not required. Then the sweeper looked at us and smiled.

  Ah, my silly Gandhian friends, he said. We meet again.

  I was not sure what to say. I turned to Iqbal, but he gave me a look that meant it is your problem to talk to these madmen. So I turned back to the sweeper.

  Yes, I said.

  I cautiously looked at the madman. He was still bowing slightly.

  Now the sweeper looked at the madman and smiled. Why have you brought these Gandhians to me, Bhatkoo? he said to the madman.

  Netaji, I met them at the bank when I was making the weekly deposit, said the madman whose name I surmised was Bhatkoo. Funny name, but appropriate for a madman.

  They were speaking of reclaiming land from China and Pakistan and Bangladesh, and so I thought they are men of action like yourself and like all of us, said Bhatkoo. He smiled very widely. Bhatkoo was very pleased with his work, it seemed.

  I see, said the sweeper. He looked at me. So, you are a man of action now, is it?

  Yes, I proclaimed.

  Okay, good. We can use such men in our group, said the sweeper.

  I was not sure how to ask the sweeper the burning question. I looked at Iqbal. He shook his head as an indication that I must ask the question. So I did.

  Tell me one thing, I said, your madman, I mean your man Bhatkoo, has said some impossible things about you.

  Like what? said the sweeper.

  I hesitated. It is hard for me to say, I told him. It is not a serious thing.

  Go ahead, the sweeper said, I like jokes.

  Never mind, I said. It is not a good joke.

  Netaji, they are doubting that you are Netaji, said Bhatkoo.

  The sweeper turned to me with an angry look. What is there to doubt? he said. Why should we lie about such things?

  I was not sure how to engage with such foolish conversation. But I did so anyway. First of all, I said, you are younger than myself, and only barely older than my children, all of whom are in college.

  That is only in appearance, said the sweeper. My college days were long time back. I was at Cambridge around 1920. And Presidency College in Calcutta before that. He smiled. Those were fine years.

  I stared at this young man who had no wrinkles on his skin talk about being in college about ninety years earlier. I did some mental calculations, and even though I did not know the official birth year of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, my calculations placed his age at around one hundred and ten years. Impossible. These are bloody madmen, I thought.

  So I smiled at the young man and then I turned to Iqbal and gave him a look that meant come, let us quickly run away from these mad buggers. But to my surprise, Iqbal stepped forward and began talking.

  How come you have no wrinkles if you are hundred-plus years in age, said Iqbal. I was impressed that Iqbal had also done the mental maths.

  The sweeper laughed. You want my secrets to a youthful appearance? he said. It is too soon to give away such valuable information.

  Now it was time for me to be the voice of sense and calmness and reason. I grabbed Iqbal’s arm and said come on, let us get away from the madmen.

  But Iqbal pushed away my grip and gave me a look of determination and resolve. This is a test, he said. This is the ultimate test of whether we are truly willing to pursue the truth wherever he or she may lie.

  It, I said.

  What? said Iqbal.

  It. We decided that the truth was genderless, I said.

  Iqbal did not respond. For one second I thought he would slap me for changing the topic by introducing such a trivial matter when issues of immense gravity are at stake.

  Okay fine, I said. We can do little more pursuit.

  The sweeper was watching all this with amusement. Bhatkoo was also smiling at our display.

  Now the sweeper came forward. Okay, he said. I will say one or two things about my youthful appearance. But then you must promise to spend little more time with me to learn about our activities and perhaps join our group.

  I thought for one minute. As long as it is in the interest of learning and pursuit of the truth, I said.

  Of course, the sweeper said. It is all in the interest of wisdom and truth. Without those things, what else is there?

  Action, I said. Action is also there.

  Yes, said the sweeper. I only told you that on your previous visit to my courtyard.

  Oh, yes, I said.

  Funny bugger you are, he said.

  Sorry, I said.

  No need for sorry. Funny buggers are always welcome in my courtyard, he said.

  You are the owner of this courtyard? I asked.

  Yes, he said. Of course. Is it not obvious?

  I looked around at the courtyard. It was not obvious to me, but then I am not so smart in some non-mathematical things.

  Why you sweep your own courtyard? I asked. Netaji would never sweep his own courtyard.

  It seems you know nothing about what Netaji would or would not do, he said. After all, I am Netaji, and I am sweeping my own courtyard, so is that not proof that you do not know what Netaji would or would not do?

  I thought about it. His statement seemed logical in appearance, but smelled little off. Still, I could not find the source of the smell, so I let it go for now.

  Iqbal was not paying attention. He was still looking at the sweeper’s face. What about the wrinkles? he said.

  Now the sweeper put on a serious face. Okay, he said. I will explain how to prevent wrinkles.

  Iqbal moved closer, and so did I.

  First, said the sweeper, you must minimize sun exposure.

  But you are a sweeper, I said. How can you minimize sun exposure when you are sweeping in the sun every day?

  The sweeper shook his head. No, he said. I usually finish before the sun rises. But today due to the unseasonal rain, I had to sweep later. So today is an exception. Few exceptions are allowed. It creates some variety, which is also good for the skin.

  Okay, I said.

  What else? said Iqbal.

  Number two, said the sweeper, is that you must always lie on your back when you sleep. No sleeping on your side, and no sleeping on your stomach. You must lie with your face looking directly up at the ceiling.

  Impossible, I said. Absolutely impossible.

  Iqbal also looked dubious.

  The sweeper smiled. It cannot be impossible if I accomplish it every day. And since I accomplish it every day, it is not impossible. Is that not logical?

  I nodded. It sounded logical.

  But how, said Iqbal.

  I have some people from my group tie me to my bed in the appropriate position, said the sweeper. Once I am secured, I cannot move to either side, and so the sleeping posture is easily accomplished.

  Iqbal nodded. Okay, he said, I understand. One must be secured with rope in bed.

  What else, I said.

  There is one more thing, said the sweeper. But it is not a simple thing to explain.

  But you must explain, I said. We must have the truth. It is our duty, our obligation.

  The sweeper was quiet. Then he shook his head. No, he said, it is not a simple thing. It is quite complex, actually. I do not think you Gandhians are ready for such truths.

  Nonsense, I said. Gandh
ians by definition are making constant preparations for truths of any kind and any gender.

  The sweeper looked little confused at my last comment, but he did not say anything. He seemed to be thinking. Then he spoke. Okay, he said, I will say the third thing.

  Okay, wonderful, I said.

  The third condition for preventing wrinkles, he said, is to avoid all worry.

  Now I laughed. He really was a madman.

  Even Iqbal laughed. You are a madman, he said. I was surprised, because Iqbal does not call people such names.

  See, the sweeper said. It is not a simple thing. You are not capable of understanding.

  Now I became curious. No, no, I said. We are definitely capable. You must explain it little more though. You cannot just say to avoid worry.

  Okay, said the sweeper. But you must come inside the building with me. I cannot explain it here. It is too sunny.

  10

  And so our pursuit of truth took us deeper into the world of the madmen. But nobody said pursuing the truth would involve only sane people. Besides, if this madman who says he is Netaji tells us how to avoid worry, then it will not matter whether he is Netaji or simply a madman. The truth will be independent of his mental status or birth certificate.

  The interior of the building attached to the courtyard was extremely curious. The main hall was quite dark to begin with, which was strange because there were many windows, all of which were facing the blast of the Mumbai sun. And the Mumbai sun can deliver quite a blast, I tell you.

  I was going to ask Netaji about this curious darkness, but I held back. I did not want to distract him or annoy him. After all, if these are madmen, who is to say what will set them off?

  It is a special unidirectional tinted glass, said Netaji.

  What? I said.

  Yes, said Bhatkoo, it has been developed by one of the scientists in our group.

  Netaji nodded. Also helpful in preventing sun exposure when indoors, he said.

  Okay, I said, okay then.

  Nice one, said Iqbal.

  Netaji smiled. Yes, he said, we have some useful people in our group.

  Now I became more curious about his group. First I had thought they would all be madmen, but perhaps there was more to it. After all, this one-way tinted glass was quite a fancy invention, and definitely not a creation of madmen. So I looked at Iqbal, who nodded in approval. And then I proceeded with a question.

  Netaji, I said, tell us one or two things about this group.

  Netaji looked at me. His eyebrow was raised, and I felt little uncomfortable, like I was asking something that should not be asked.

  Perhaps, said Netaji. Perhaps I will say one or two things.

  Then he was quiet. He walked deeper into the interior of the building and we quietly followed him. Presently I noticed that Bhatkoo had somehow disappeared, and now only the three of us were present. I was not sure whether to be worried, and so I decided not to worry.

  There is no need to worry, said Netaji, even though it is dark and getting darker.

  No problem, I said, we are not worried.

  Okay good, said Netaji, because it would be needless to worry.

  Okay good, I said.

  But internally I was wondering if I should get little worried. After all, it was dark and getting darker, and we were following a madman into this dark place. I looked behind me to see if Iqbal was following. I saw his outline and white kurta, but I could not read his expression due to the darkness. I became little worried, and I thought about my wife. And then immediately I thought about food.

  Will there be any food where we are going, I said.

  Although I could not see, I could feel Iqbal’s look. Undoubtedly he was giving me a look for speaking of food at a serious time like this. I felt bad, but what to do?

  Netaji laughed. Of course, he said, but it will be vegetarian food only.

  No problem, I said.

  You are vegetarian? Iqbal asked.

  Not always, said Netaji. No, sometimes I like to eat good fish. But Mumbai has no good fish. Not like we used to get in Bengal.

  Yes, I understand, Iqbal said. You Bengalis like to eat the fish from rivers. Here we eat fish from open seas and oceans. So there is a difference.

  Big difference, said Netaji.

  Not so much I think, said Iqbal.

  I tried to send Iqbal a look that said don’t argue with the madman in the darkness, but the look could not be conveyed due to said darkness. So I let the argument about fish proceed.

  Very big difference, said Netaji. These Mumbai fish have not much taste. Especially that pomfret creature.

  Okay yes, said Iqbal. That much is true. But the Bombay-duck is tasty fish.

  Ah, okay fine, said Netaji. Bombay-duck is fine enough. I eat it sometimes, especially when it is double-fried with extra turmeric and double-extra salt.

  I myself do not like Bombay-duck so much. It is a skinny and bony fish and I have to eat at least fifteen to twenty of the buggers to feel full.

  Still, since Iqbal and Netaji were in agreement, I did not want to add any disturbance to the situation.

  Yes, I said, you are both correct.

  You also like Bombay-duck? Netaji asked me.

  Now I was not sure how to reply. It did not seem good to lie whilst in active pursuit of the truth. But I did not want to get into an argument in the darkness with a potential madman. So I tried to evade the subject.

  I am from Bombay, I said, and I love all things about Bombay.

  Rubbish, said Netaji. You are either blind or you are a liar. Now which is it, he asked me, blind or liar?

  Now I was really in trouble. I thought for a minute, and then, by taking the increasing darkness into account, I replied confidently.

  Blind, I said.

  Okay, said Netaji. Then I will help you along the path to visibility. First I will have my people bring some Bombay-ducks. And we will have them double-fried with turmeric.

  And double-extra salt, said Iqbal.

  Iqbal seemed very excited, and this only made me angry. Not only was I angry at Iqbal, but also at myself. My own lies had put me in a position where I would be forced to eat this fish that I did not prefer. I made a sound and kept walking.

  But of course, said Netaji, there will also be some onion bhajias.

  My ears and tongue perked up at the mention of bhajias, which are lovely deep-fried fritters of vegetables covered in chickpea batter. Ah, good. Now I only hoped that Iqbal would not speak of the onion problem.

  So, your group has not been affected by onion problem, is it? asked Iqbal.

  If there had been more light, I would definitely have slapped Iqbal. Who gives a bloody damn about onion problems when bhajias are at stake?

  There is no onion problem here, said Netaji.

  Not yet, but soon there might be, said Iqbal. It is coming. It is a simple case of supply and demand, you see.

  Yes, yes, said Netaji. You both explained this to me earlier. But see, there is no onion problem here.

  How can that be? Iqbal said.

  Because we manage our demand and supply from within the group itself, said Netaji.

  Means what? I said.

  You silly bugger, said Netaji, it simply means we eat the onions that we grow, and we grow the onions that we eat.

  Your group owns onion farmland? asked Iqbal.

  Netaji laughed. You might say that. You will see for yourself soon enough. We are almost there now.

  But it is only getting darker here, I said. It appears we are moving more to the interior than the exterior. How can there be farmland in the building?

  No land is necessary, said Netaji. It is a simple matter of hydroponics.

  Means what? I said.

  Means growth of plant without land. Only water is necessary, said Netaji.

  Amazing, I said. Your scientists must be very smart.

  No, said Netaji. It is the onion that is smart. Our scientists have not invented hydroponics. In fact, the plan
ts only have invented it.

  Absolute nonsense, I said. A plant cannot invent anything. It is a stupid creature.

  Quiet, said Netaji. He stopped immediately and turned to me. Do not say such things, he said. The plants may hear you, and then we may have a real onion problem.

  I laughed. Plants cannot hear, I said, you are the stupid bugger now. I laughed again.

  And then Netaji slapped me quite hard and I shouted.

  Netaji made two or three sounds in Bengali, and suddenly out of the darkness came Bhatkoo and two or three other people. They grabbed on to me and Iqbal, some of them pulling, and some of them pushing, but all of them grabbing. And before we knew it the darkness had become light and we were pushed and pulled and grabbed until we found ourselves thrown back out into the courtyard. That very same courtyard in which we had started. But now we were alone, with no bhajias, no Bombay-ducks, and no truth.

  11

  We stood in silence for some time, and then I took Iqbal to task.

  Why must you open your small little mouth, you fool? I said to him. If you had not mentioned onion problem, then we would right now be eating onion bhajias and learning the truth about how to avoid wrinkles by eliminating worry from life.

  Iqbal kept his mouth shut. He was staring at the dark windows of the building from which we had been expelled.

  What are you staring at, you stupid bugger? I said to Iqbal.

  Iqbal did not respond. Instead of responding, he continued to stare at the windows. At one window, to be precise. Presently Iqbal turned to me and smiled.

  Look, he said.

  I don’t want to look at anything, I said, because I am angry and because I am hungry.

  Now look, I tell you, said Iqbal.

  His voice was loud, which is uncommon for Iqbal, and so I looked at where he was pointing. I could now see why he was smiling.

  In the one dark window, I could see one dark figure. The figure was holding a torch. I mean a torch that has batteries, not the one with flames. The torch was moving, and it seemed to be a signal. Of course, I could not understand this signal, so I looked at Iqbal, my brother in life, the answer-man.

  I think it is Bhatkoo, said Iqbal.

  So what? I said. Bhatkoo is the one who grabbed us and threw us from that place.