The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel

by Zubin J. Shroff

  Now Iqbal was still, and he began to touch his beard, which meant he was thinking of a question.

  Netaji appeared to anticipate a question, and he interjected with his own question. Smart bugger, this madman.

  Tell me, said Netaji, why is it we have not had wars with Pakistan and China for over ten years now?

  We were both quiet.

  Netaji smiled. He appeared to be very satisfied by his unanswerable question. Unanswerable by us only, it seems, because Netaji himself proceeded to answer it.

  Onions, he said.

  Onions? I asked.

  Netaji smiled again. See, he said, India is a big exporter of onions to many countries. Countries that include Pakistan and China.

  But how and why? I said. After all, China occupies number one rank in onion production. How can we send our nice round onions to them when there is onion problem here itself?

  That is the thing, said Netaji, when there is onion problem here, we do not send our nice round onions to our neighbors in the north.

  Okay, I said, that is sensible.

  No, said Netaji.

  What? I said.

  Yes, said Netaji. See, onion problems in Pakistan and China are as big as problems here in India. Bigger even, since there are no Jains in those countries, and therefore a much higher percentage of the population consumes onions.

  I nodded. Yes, these Jains have caused many onion problems.

  Netaji laughed and shook his head. You are a silly bugger, he said. No, really, quite silly. Jains are not causing any problems anywhere. Please leave them out of this, you silly bugger.

  Iqbal also looked at me as if I was the madman and not this other madman who says he is Netaji. But regardless, due to being outnumbered, I looked down as if to say sorry.

  Sorry, said Iqbal, he is a silly bugger, but he means well.

  Yes, I see, said Netaji.

  Sorry, I said.

  No matter, said Netaji, let us continue.

  Okay, said Iqbal.

  As I was saying, said Netaji, onion problems in Pakistan and China cause lots of social upheaval, and hence the government starts to feel pressure. And this pressure can be rebounded to India in the form of border attacks and other such nonsense that distracts the people from the onion problems. See, onion shortage becomes less of a problem if you can immediately create other bigger problems such as war.

  So you are saying that decrease in onion exports from India to Pakistan and China can lead to war sometimes? asked Iqbal.

  Not sometimes, said Netaji, all the time. All the previous wars were directly related to drop in Indian onion exports. If you study the correlations of failure of Indian onion crop with increase in border disputes, you will find a hundred percent correlation.

  But correlation does not imply causation, I said with my one finger raised in the air for dramatic effect.

  Netaji and Iqbal stared at me as if I had turned into a Bombay-duck.

  Sorry, I said.

  They did not say anything. I think they were shocked at my precise and timely comment. As I mentioned before, maths is my strong suit.

  Netaji now looked at me and smiled and nodded. Yes, my silly friend. You are quite correct. But what if I told you that exactly one year prior to each border dispute, the onion crop had failed, leading to cancellation of onion exports?

  That would still not guarantee causation, I said with confidence and perhaps some obstinence.

  No, said Netaji, no guarantee, but there is strong indication, would you not agree?

  Yes, I said.

  Yes, said Iqbal.

  Okay, so to continue to the crux of my point, said Netaji, every time India stops sending onions to Pakistan and China, they reply by sending missiles and soldiers.

  That is not fair, I said.

  Very rude, said Iqbal.

  Netaji laughed. Yes, he said, unfair and rude, but not unexpected given the lack of good democratic government in Pakistan and China.

  I do not follow, I said.

  Iqbal was quiet. I could see he was thinking, but I could also see that he did not follow Netaji’s reasoning.

  See, said Netaji, in these non-democratic countries, the rulers are in constant fear of revolution. And since it is very easy for these rulers to make rules, they can start border disputes with just one or two simple rules.

  I was still confused, but Iqbal was smiling.

  Okay, said Iqbal, and since onion problem is the number one reason for revolution, when there is onion problem in non-democratic countries, the rulers create border disputes to distract the people. That is what you are trying to explain to us.

  Yes, said Netaji.

  Iqbal and I were quiet once again. The conversation was very complicated, and I was not sure if it was over or not. I thought about my wife, and I became hungry again.

  So, said Netaji.

  So, said Iqbal.

  Okay then, I said, shall we take leave then?

  You Gandhians have had enough truth for one day? said Netaji.

  Iqbal looked at me.

  I made a sound.

  Iqbal was still looking at me when I stopped making sounds.

  No, I said, there can never be enough truth.

  Netaji laughed. Good, he said, because you have not yet found out why my hydroponic onions are under lock and key.

  It is obvious now, I said.

  Okay, said Netaji, then explain it.

  See, I said, when there is onion problem in India, you release your hydroponic onions to the Indian market to offset the problem. And so you must keep the onions locked up so that you can control the delivery and timing of said delivery. Simple.

  Yes, said Iqbal, simple and patriotic.

  Very much so, I said.

  Netaji is indeed a great freedom fighter, said Iqbal.

  Thank you, thank you, said Netaji, but you are all wrong about everything except the fact of my patriotism.

  Again we were quiet.

  Netaji leaned back in his chair and looked around the brightly lit room as if to make sure no one was hiding. See, he said, I actually supply my hydroponic onions directly to Pakistani and Chinese groups.

  We were still quiet, but in stunned state.

  After some time I spoke.

  But Netaji, I said.

  Netaji shook his head. See, he said, my hydroponics do not produce enough onion to affect Indian national supply enough to maintain exports during local onion crisis.

  Okay, I said.

  So, said Netaji, I am left with two choices—one is to supply only the Bombay region with onions, and the other is to supply only certain groups in Pakistan and China with onions.

  What groups, asked Iqbal.

  In Pakistan it is mainly the big groups like Taliban and Lakshar-e-Taibba, said Netaji, and in China it is the Maoist rebel groups.

  It is hard now to describe our feelings of confusion. The bright lights were creating havoc with my sense of balance and sanity, and if I was not so round, I would surely have gotten up to run away from this madman.

  Do not be afraid, said Netaji, it is not what it seems.

  Then what is it? said Iqbal.

  Netaji laughed. Did I not say I was a patriot?

  Actually I said it, I said.

  No, I said it, said Iqbal.

  Does not matter who said it, said Netaji.

  Okay, I said.

  Iqbal was quiet, and I could tell he was thinking of a way to escape from this madman, but was conflicted by our pledge to pursue the truth. Although, to be honest, I did not think that such danger to our own lives should be necessary for pursuit of truth. At least not on the first day of pursuing truth. Again I thought of my wife, and I felt sad that since this madman was undoubtedly going to murder us, I would not see her again. My dear, sweet wife. So much love for her I felt in that moment under the bright lights.

  Then I felt hungry again, and so I paid attention to the madman.

  He was still laughing, but not so much like a madman.
More like someone who was playing a trick on us.

  See, said Netaji, I will give you an example of the problem and my solution.

  Okay, I said.

  Yes, said Iqbal.

  Now imagine there is an onion problem and exports to Pakistan have been cut, said Netaji.

  Okay, said Iqbal.

  Wait one minute, I said.

  They both looked at me.

  Okay, I said, I am ready.

  Now, said Netaji, low exports means onion problem in Pakistan, which increases chances for revolution because people are getting angry because their food does not taste so good without onions.

  Yes, I said, that Pakistani food is very much dependent on onions.

  Okay, said Netaji, so the rulers get some of these angry groups like Taliban and Lakshar to recruit some angry Pakistani villagers to launch attacks along the border with India and Kashmir, and then all the local Pakistanis become occupied with all that militant nonsense.

  Ah, said Iqbal, and so the locals are not so worried about their food being less tasty.

  Ah, I said, and so they are less thoughtful about revolutions.

  Ah, said Netaji, yes.

  So, said Iqbal, you supply onions directly to angry groups like Taliban and Lakshar, and they become less angry, and so they are less willing to recruit angry villagers to launch attacks.

  Yes, said Netaji, and hence I am a patriot.

  I thought about this for some time. It seemed logical, but still something was off.

  But Netaji, I said, by depriving Indian locals of your onions, are you not creating angry conditions in the homeland?

  Iqbal looked at me and nodded.

  And so, I said, are you not increasing chances for revolution here as well?

  Iqbal nodded again.

  Now with Iqbal’s support, I gained confidence in my logic. So, I said, would our rulers also not start to launch border nonsense to create distractions for the angry people who have no onions? Would our rulers also not be afraid of revolution?

  Netaji laughed. No, he said, we have a democracy in India. Here when there is revolution, some politicians temporarily give up their jobs to their cousins and in-laws, and then when the onion problem is solved, they simply regain their jobs.

  It is a good system, I said.

  Iqbal shook his head and looked at the tiles.

  Then Netaji became serious. But, he said, you are little bit correct in your earlier point. Nowadays, the politicians are finding that after giving up their jobs to cousins and in-laws, there is no guarantee that they will regain their jobs. And so they are more concerned with onion problem than previously.

  Okay, I said, so now you will be changing your onion supply plan?

  No, you silly bugger, said Netaji, I do not care about the family matters of the stupid politicians.

  But to return to an even earlier point, said Iqbal, if the Indian politicians are worrying about onion problem and revolution, then would they not create border trouble to distract the Indians?

  Netaji laughed. No, he said, the Indian politicians simply create internal trouble to distract the people.

  Like what? I said.

  Like riots, floods, earthquakes, temple destruction, mosque burning, and other such normal day-to-day things, said Netaji.

  Now again Iqbal and I were stunned.

  But, I said, is that not worse for Indians than border trouble?

  Yes, said Iqbal, should you not then redirect your onions to local people so that such terrible domestic problems can be reduced?

  Netaji sighed and shook his head.

  What is the problem? I asked.

  See, said Netaji, although you will soon understand that my tactics provide the maximum possible benefit to India’s overall situation, the problems you speak of are domestic issues, and I am a foreign-relations specialist, so these are not my problems to deal with directly.

  Now I was hundred percent sure we were dealing with a madman. Or perhaps even a politician himself, which could be even more dangerous. I looked at Iqbal, and I could tell by his stillness that he agreed with me. We somehow had to stop this madman, or at least get ourselves out of there.

  14

  Of course, when you are in the darkness of a madman’s hole in a previously-unknown courtyard in the city of your birth, then sometimes it is not so easy to get out, or even to talk about getting out. You see, for some reason Iqbal was not paying as much attention to me, and I worried that our wavelengths were little bit off at that point. So the result being that I was unable to communicate my determination to get away from the madman. At least I could not communicate it through nonverbal and nonphysical means.

  So first I selected a physical means of communication. With my foot, I poked Iqbal’s foot. But this did not work. He simply moved his foot to the side and kept on staring at Netaji. So then I tried a verbal means of communicating my apprehension.

  Since Netaji was highly trained in diplomacy, I had to be diplomatic, so I could not simply say: Come Iqbal, let us flee from this dark hole of the madman who thinks he is Netaji.

  Instead, I made sounds that I hoped would be understood by Iqbal and not Netaji. The sounds themselves are indescribable, and even if they were describable, it would not do to describe them. Suffice it to say that I started off with the softest and least offensive sounds, and progressively progressed to the loudest and most disgusting sounds.

  Perhaps you have eaten too many onion bhajias, said Netaji with a diplomatic smile.

  Iqbal stared at me as if to say the same thing but with the addition of shut up at the end. I was quite embarrassed, and when I looked up to see Bhatkoo peeking at me through the door-shaped opening in the wall, I became angry like how when you are embarrassed and someone laughs at you and you immediately become angry. But luckily the anger was of the clarifying kind, and I immediately thought of a solution to being expelled from this dark hole of the madmen and the hydroponics.

  I would insult the plants once more. No doubt then Iqbal and I would be thrown from the place with a high degree of immediacy and prejudice. Although I thought the idea of plants that care about what we have to say was quite silly, I knew that sometimes you have to pursue silly ideas when dealing with madmen.

  Of course, there were no plants in the brightly lit sitting room where we were sitting, so I stood up from my seat and asked for a toilet.

  You will have to go to the toilet, said Netaji, because the toilet cannot be brought to you.

  Yes yes of course, I said while ignoring Iqbal’s look of embarrassment. It did not matter what my brother in life thought of me at this point. When I succeeded in getting us ejected and expunged from this place, he would understand and we would be like brothers once again.

  So Bhatkoo entered, and with the dirty smirk of a servant of a powerful madman, he led me out of the sitting room.

  Clearing space for the Bombay-duck? said Bhatkoo with a smirk.

  Bombay-duck? I said in panic.

  Yes, said Bhatkoo, the Netaji has ordered some to be prepared for your friend and you. Double-fried with extra-double salt.

  Now I was worried. I knew that Iqbal was a small eater even at the biggest of occasions, but when it came to Bombay-duck, there was no equal on the western coasts of India. Part of this I think came from the fact that Iqbal’s wife did all the cooking in the house, and although she is a sweet thing and is very nice to Iqbal, she refuses to cook Bombay-duck on account of the smell. And so, when you are denied something at home on a regular basis, then when you are offered that thing outside on an irregular basis, you tend to overdo it. And this was the case with Iqbal and the Bombay-duck.

  I thought some more on the topic as I expunged myself in the toilet. At first my confidence and resolve wavered, but soon it passed and I felt light and refreshed and ready to insult those bloody plants. Sometimes a man must upset his brother in order to save the man who is blinded by the spicy charms of the slender and salty Bombay-duck. In this case my brother was also t
he man blinded by said spicy charms, and so I stepped out into the hydroponic garden and looked around for a suitable candidate to abuse.

  Close to me there were some tomato hydroponics. Now I remembered that after speaking with the pao-bhaji-walla I had decided that tomatoes were less perfect and hence less desirable than onions, and so I thought this was a sign for me to abuse these tomato plants. Of course, personally I love the tomato, but I could not imagine that this sweet red bulbous plant would lose much sleep over my abuse. After all, if the plant was smart enough to understand that I am abusing it, then it should be wise enough to note that I am under the pressure of being in the dark bulbous hole of a madman, and I am only trying to save myself and my brother in life.

  So I confidently and lightly stepped forward and stood next to the red sweet tomato and took a deep breath, looking around to make sure that Bhatkoo and a few other attendants were close enough to hear my abuses.

  You stupid red bulbous blob of redness, I said.

  I waited for a reaction from either the plant or the attendants, but neither party seemed to notice. So I stepped closer and spoke louder.

  Ay, you bloody tomato with your funny face and ugly smell, I said.

  Now Bhatkoo looked over at me with suspicion, but still he did not approach. Instead, he gestured to some other attendants, three of whom came to Bhatkoo to see what he was gesturing about. Now I had an audience, and so I pulled out the big ones.

  Perhaps if you were an onion you would get more respect, I said to the innocent-looking tomato, but you are just a silly tomato and deserving of not even a private room with lock-and-key.

  At this point I swore the tomato fruits moved a little bit. At first I thought it was the wind, but we were in a dark hole with no fans and so no wind. So obviously it was my imagination. Or perhaps I was weak and fragile and hallucinating due to not having eaten lunch yet. After all, since morning I had only consumed toast, jam, butter, tea, milk, sugar, pao-bhaji, and onion bhajias. That is not enough to sustain a man in such times of national, international, and personal crisis. Then suddenly I got the sweet charming smell of Bombay-duck frying to perfection in spices and salt and sunflower oil. Even though I am not a big fan of Bombay-duck, in times of emergency, one must make do with what is served.