The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel

by Zubin J. Shroff

  But then I gathered myself once again and re-firmed my resolve. I told myself I would not fall victim to the charms of the slender Bombay-duck. I am a Gandhian, and the Gandhian must hold firm to his vows when times are tough. After all, did Bapuji not refuse milk even when he was near death due to dehydration and dysentery? Did the great Mahatma not refute temptation even when being washed by the women who served him?

  I thought of my wife and then immediately thought of food and my resolve wavered yet again and my legs trembled and I almost reached out for one of the succulent sweet-sweet tomatoes that beckoned to me like bulbous balls of temptation and sweetness.

  You dirty thing, I screamed at the tomato, how dare you look at me that way. I am a married man, you know.

  Now Bhatkoo and the attendants had moved closer to me, and this gave me some confidence and a boost of energy needed to push my self-sacrificing act to completion. So I pushed on.

  Your redness is offensive and disgusting, I said with disdain, and your bulbousness is dirty and corrosive to the soul.

  I paused and looked over at Bhatkoo and the others. And only at this point did I notice that they were neither angry nor upset but instead were amused at my attempts at abuse. This made me angrier, and I started to yell at the tomato plants and spoke great obscenities in many different Indian languages. The obscenities I cannot repeat here, partly because they would not be understood in the translation, and if they were understood, this account would immediately be classified as pornographic material and seized by the government and burned with great immediacy and precision.

  So suffice it to say that the obscenities I hurled were of graphic and terrible nature, and the volume and intensity at which I hurled them were of admirable depth. But still neither Bhatkoo nor the attendants, all of whom had no doubt heard my abusive advances, made any move to have me thrown out of the deep dark place of the madman and his soil-less plant life.

  And so I decided I would launch a physical assault on the tomato.

  15

  As I prepared myself to attack the innocent sweet tomato, I wondered if perhaps I was committing a transgression towards the Gandhian principle of nonviolence. After all, a tomato is a form of life, is it not? And even though the idea that it can hear abusive language is laughable (as I have proven through my merciless abuses that registered no effect), a physical assault is abuse of a different class and nature. I tried to think back over Gandhiji’s autobiography to see if he had allowed for violence under some exceptional situations, but my memory is not so good, and if there was such a passage in his book, I could not recall it.

  But that is just as well, because my hesitation at that point was enough to obtain some success towards my ultimate goal of expungement and ejection of me and my brother in life.

  As I stood there in my attack-stance thinking about the life story of Gandhiji, one of the sweet innocent tomatoes began to gently sway. Presently, to my shock and awe, the tomato detached itself from its green moist dirt-less vine. I worried that perhaps the tomato will come after me, but of course it is a small fruit with no legs and so it just fell down straight into the glass container with a gentle sound not unlike that of a soft round object falling on hard flat glass.

  I was frozen, unsure if my abuses had caused this detachment. I carefully looked over at the attendants, but miraculously they seemed to have lost interest in my interactions with the tomato hydroponic, and in fact Bhatkoo was not even standing there anymore. And so I found myself alone with my felled victim, the innocent tomato, the red bulb of sweetness that did not deserve my abuses but received them nonetheless. I had committed an act of violence, and the act itself had been successful, but my ultimate goal had been left unfulfilled. What a terrible position for a Gandhian to be in, and I felt appropriately terrible. I stepped up to the fallen ball of redness and reached out to caress its fallen form, but a loud voice stopped me and I remained there frozen, arm outstretched, my crime apparent for all to see and laugh at.

  Bombay-ducks are here, shouted Bhatkoo from across the hydroponic garden.

  I swallowed hard. Could it be that no one had witnessed my hate-crime? Could it be that all of it was a hallucination due to lack of food and excessive lightness in the stomach and therefore head? Better not to take any chances, I thought, and so I pocketed the tomato and hurried to the door-shaped opening where the slender Bombay-duck sang her song of victory.

  After sitting down in the sitting area, I sat quietly and did not speak even when spoken to. Iqbal was looking at me in a way I had not seen him look before, and Netaji was looking at Iqbal in a way that I could not interpret. Finally Netaji turned to me and smiled.

  You may keep that tomato, he said.

  I was speechless, and quickly checked my pocket to see if the tomato was visible. It was not. I looked up and my eyes locked with the dark dancing eyes of Bhatkoo, the madman’s servant. His eyes told me he had observed all and reported all, and my respect for this Bhatkoo increased from the previous level of low to the current level of medium. Crafty bugger, this Bhatkoo. And observant as well.

  Now Netaji turned back to Iqbal. And your onions will be packaged and brought out to you shortly, he said.

  Thank you, said Iqbal.

  I stared at Iqbal in wonder and delight. Onions. This meant that Iqbal’s onion problem had been solved. Our pursuit had reached the end, and although the truth was still not so clear to me, the fact that our initial problem had been solved meant that the truth had been pursued to some degree of success. Perhaps later reflection would reveal the truth in its simplest and most beautiful form, but for now we could celebrate our successful completion of the first serious Gandhian pursuit launched by myself and Iqbal, my Gandhian brother in life.

  At this point Netaji rose up and stepped away from the seating area to speak with Bhatkoo, and I took advantage of this moment of semi-privacy to congratulate my brother on solving his onion problem.

  So now we can go, I said to him with relief.

  No, he said quietly.

  Ah okay, I replied, you want to eat the Bombay-duck first.

  Yes, he said quietly.

  No problem, I said, even I will eat the slender charming Duck with you in celebration.

  Iqbal simply nodded.

  And then we can go, I said to him with relief and some relish as the smell of spicy charming fried fish invaded my senses.

  No, said Iqbal.

  Means what, I said.

  Means now we are part of this group, said Iqbal, and so this is our place now.

  Means what, I said.

  Means we are new recruits to Netaji’s hydroponic foreign policy institute, he said, and this means we have duties to perform before our activation is complete and we are allowed outside this building and courtyard on our own.

  Means what, I said again. But now my tone had changed from relief and confusion to panic and convolution.

  Means we cannot go home until some tasks are performed to Netaji’s satisfaction, said Iqbal.

  What bloody tasks, I asked. I knew there could be no satisfying a madman, and so I wondered if I would ever see my wife again.

  Mind your language please, said Netaji. He had returned behind my back, and now he stood in front of my front.

  Sorry, I said, but Iqbal was just updating me on this unacceptable situation of not being allowed to leave this place.

  Yes, said Netaji, you are both new recruits, and there has to be some breaking-in period before you can be trusted with the secrets that have been revealed to you.

  What secrets, I shouted. You have not even told us how to avoid worry like you promised.

  True, said Netaji with a smile and a laugh.

  So tell us, I shouted again.

  Sorry, said Netaji, the promise of the secret of worry-avoidance is just a recruiting tactic to bring in the people who are gullible and simple but yet idealistic enough to believe that a world without worry is possible or even desirable.

  So you lied to us, I sai
d in Gandhian fury.

  Netaji shrugged his shoulders. I told you two truths and one lie, he said, and so I am majority truthful, and what more can you ask of a foreign policy expert?

  This seemed logical enough and so I calmed down and Netaji continued.

  No, he said, the real secret is this place and these people.

  What people, I shouted.

  Myself, said Netaji.

  I stared at the madman and then at Iqbal, who was simply looking at his onions and rubbing them like rubbing them would free us from this predicament.

  See, said Netaji, it would not do for people to find out that I am still alive and well.

  Why not? I said. Will people not be overjoyed? Will they not celebrate your life and bring you to the forefront of India’s foreign policy once more?

  Netaji smiled. My bulbous friend, he said, I am already at the forefront of India’s foreign policy. And soon the both of you will be there with me as well.

  You are a madman, I said, and we are leaving this dark hole of yours.

  I stood up and looked at Iqbal for support. But my brother in life did not meet my eye, and he simply clutched his packet of onions and stared into the distance as if there was something of interest far away. There was not, and this meant that Iqbal was avoiding looking at me. I was alone once more, with nothing but my one tomato to stand with me. So I pulled out the tomato and held it up for all to see.

  I will squash this, I said to Netaji.

  Netaji smiled. Now who is the madman, he said.

  You are the madman, I said, and I will squash this tomato and all the other hydroponics will know that you will not defend them when they are in danger of being squashed.

  You do not know very much about these plants, said Netaji with a smile.

  I know enough, I said.

  No, said Netaji, because then you would know that the survival of the tomato species depends on stupid animals like you taking the red sweet fruit of the plant and squashing it and spreading its seeds. The threat of squashing it is not a threat at all, and in fact the tomato plants and all other hydroponics will marvel at my ability to get stupid animals like you to spread their seeds.

  Now I felt like a silly bugger again. I had abused the tomato fruit, not the mother plant. The tomato fruit must have been fine with the abuses because an animal that abuses the fruit is perhaps more likely to squash the fruit and hence spread the seeds. This must be why Bhatkoo and the attendants made no move to stop my abuses. My spirit shattered, my resolve reduced, my determination destroyed, I dropped the triumphant tomato and sat down and filled up my plate with seven or eight Bombay-ducks.

  16

  RK-sahib, said Netaji after the Bombay-ducks were consumed, perhaps things have become a little too combative and tense between us all.

  I was full, but not full enough to forget our situation. Perhaps, I said.

  See, said Netaji, I would not ask you to do anything that violates your Gandhian principles. At the end of it, one could say I am a Gandhian myself. And the task I have set for you and Iqbalji is one that would be near and dear to Bapuji’s heart.

  I had my doubts about what this madman would have us do, but since the Bombay-duck was much better than my expectation of it, it stood to reason that perhaps the task would be better than expectation as well.

  What is it, I said as I licked a piece of salty spice from my fingers.

  Iqbal knows the details, said Netaji, and so he will explain it to you.

  Iqbal nodded as I stared at him in surprise.

  When did you learn of all this, I asked Iqbal.

  When you were outside in the toilet, said Iqbal.

  Okay, I said non-combatively because I did not want to draw attention to my previous Himalayan miscalculation of abusing the tomato fruit and not the mother plant itself.

  I will leave you two for a while to talk, said Netaji. He got up and left, but not without a very meaningful look at Iqbal and an even more meaningful pat on the shoulders of Iqbal, my brother in life, the brother who was making plans to do something for a madman just because the madman had provided him with some onions.

  It is not just for the onions, said Iqbal as he clutched his packet of onions like a squirrel clutching a stolen samosa.

  Okay fine, I said, whatever you say.

  No, said Iqbal, do not talk like that.

  Okay fine, I said again.

  Netaji may be a little bit cracked, he said, but he is not dangerous.

  Okay fine, I said, then let us do his cracked job and then take leave of this place forever.

  Now Iqbal looked at me with that same long face that he had displayed with great success at the beginning of our Gandhian adventures when we had made the fateful decision even before the tea had cooled. The decision to pursue the truth wherever he or she may lie, and whatever gender the truth may be. So I took a big sigh and leaned back in my chair and made some hand signals that indicated that I understood Iqbal’s look and that he should proceed with the explanation of our task.

  Our task, said Iqbal, is for the continuity of Netaji’s undercover relations with extremist groups in Pakistan.

  I sat quietly and tried to digest that statement, but digestion is not easy when the blood is boiling.

  Those bastards, I shouted, they have killed hundreds and hundreds of innocent Indians and other peoples.

  Yes, said Iqbal, but they have actually killed thousands and thousands of Pakistanis as well.

  Fine, I said while still shouting, so that makes those bastards even worse.

  Oh yes, said Iqbal, they are very very bad people.

  Then why must we have any relations with them, I shouted, other than the relation of justice coming down upon their dirty hairy faces with great immediacy and extreme prejudice.

  Remember what Netaji told us, said Iqbal, sometimes you have to shake the hand of a devil to secure peace and freedom.

  I thought he said that he did not actually say that but people just said that he said it, I said.

  Yes maybe, said Iqbal, but that is not the actual crux.

  Now you are sounding like the madman, I said, with your talk of devils and cruxes.

  The crux, said Iqbal, is that Netaji’s onion relationships with these bearded extremists generates peace in Pakistani villages and towns, and so people have less cause to kill each other or attack our border troops.

  So our Mumbai people will have to go without onions while the Pakistani villagers eat biryani with extra-double-onion, I said.

  Iqbal nodded and shrugged. Only for a short time, he said, until the Indian onion supply is increased through normal methods.

  And at this point I was struck by a brainwave that showed me how the Indian onion supply could be increased through abnormal methods. We would divert the madman’s hydroponic onions to the Mumbai market. Quite a simple plan, really. So I told it to Iqbal.

  And so, I said in conclusion, the increase in Indian onion supply will bring domestic peace and good health, and will make the Indian people more resistant to terror attacks and border skirmishes.

  That is a stupid plan, said Iqbal, and you are focusing only on domestic issues and ignoring the larger foreign relations issues that are at play here.

  Ah, I said, suddenly you are an expert in foreign policy, is it?

  Not suddenly, said Iqbal, I have been an expert for many years due to my deep ties to Pakistan and the Pakistani people.

  I stared at Iqbal in surprise. Earlier he had denied any ties with Pakistan, and so my surprise was purely related to Iqbal’s deliberate concealment of the truth. Other than that, ties with Pakistan is not such a problem. After all, the Indian and Pakistani people are one and the same, sisters like Hindi and Urdu, or brothers like myself and Iqbal. But now my brother had made two diametrically opposite statements today, and my boiling blood began to beckon me to seek the truth in this small matter before moving on to the larger matters of onion relationships with Pakistani terrorist groups.

  Yes, said Iq
bal, actually my entire mother’s side of the family is from Pakistani Lahore.

  Okay, I said, why did you not say so earlier then?

  Because, said Iqbal, at that point I was not sure of Netaji’s purpose in asking me such focused questions.

  But that means you lied, I said, when you were committed to unwavering pursuit of the ways of Gandhi and the truth.

  Commitment to the truth does not mean you cannot lie once in a while, said Iqbal, especially when it comes to foreign relations issues.

  But neither me nor Netaji is foreign, I said.

  You are not foreign, said Iqbal, but Netaji in fact is foreign.

  What, I said with a laugh, how can that be?

  Because, said Iqbal, since Netaji was considered dead and out of the country before 1947 when India gained independence, he never became a citizen of free India.

  How can that be, I said, there are birthright rights and what-not.

  Those rights and laws are not clear, said Iqbal, and so I did not want to volunteer sensitive foreign relations information at that point to someone who could be a non-citizen of India.

  But so now you have clarified with Netaji through direct questioning? I asked.

  Yes, said Iqbal, and he has confirmed that he is a citizen of no country at this point.

  How can that be? I said.

  How it can be I just explained, said Iqbal.

  But he is a madman, I said, just another Indian madman.

  Could a madman have survived without wrinkles for over a hundred years? Could a madman have survived by wandering from Taiwan to Japan with no friends except the plants and trees? Could a madman have returned to Bombay with no passport and secured a courtyard and attached building with wondrous hydroponic gardens? asked Iqbal with a sweeping gesture of his hand.

  The hydroponics were truly wondrous, and as I looked at the tomato that was still sitting there on the ground where I had dropped it, I could not help but agree with my brother in life. If this Netaji was a madman, then perhaps being mad is better than not being mad, or at least it is more useful as a means to accomplishing great and wondrous things. And so I was once again drawn into agreement with my brother Iqbal, and once again I felt our wavelengths connect together, and I even understood that sometimes you may have to lie in the interest of the truth, at least in foreign relations affairs. Finally I decided to leave alone the matter of me spending all our years of brotherhood not knowing that Iqbal’s mother’s side of the family was Pakistani. That question could wait until later. For now I needed to understand what foreign relations task we were assigned to do.