The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel

by Zubin J. Shroff

  We are to liaison with representatives of three different Pakistani groups, said Iqbal, and hand over a shipment of hydroponic onions.

  But we cannot go to Pakistan, I said in protest, my wife will be angry if I am not home soon.

  No no, said Iqbal, we are not going to Pakistan.

  By deductive reasoning I quickly arrived at the alternative.

  Which means those Pakistani lussuns are coming here to Mumbai, I said.

  Liaisons, said Iqbal, lussun means garlic.

  17

  But why us, I asked, does Netaji not already know these people and have relations with them?

  No, said Iqbal, these are new people.

  So then all the more reason for Netaji to meet them and develop new relations with them, I said.

  Yes, said Iqbal, but they will not deal directly with Netaji.

  Why not, I asked.

  Because they are extremists, said Iqbal, and so they will only deal with a Muslim.

  Now it all became clear to me: Netaji’s questioning of Iqbal’s religion and background, the meaningful glances, the pat on the shoulder. And as I thought about all that, my previous brainwave returned and I realized we were in a supremely advantageous position to seize the hydroponic shipment and distribute the onions to the onionless crowds of Mumbai. We would be true heroes, and the names of RK and Iqbal would ring out through the streets as onion bhajias and other wondrous derivatives of onion were cooked and consumed. Perhaps there would even be a special day named after us, and every year the people would honor us by having onion-based festivals and fairs across the city of Mumbai and maybe even including the suburbs of Mumbai depending on how large the shipment of onions turned out to be.

  How large is the shipment of onions, I asked.

  Five thousand kilos, said Iqbal.

  I almost fell off my chair with weight-shock. Five thousand kilos is a tremendous and wondrous amount of anything, let alone onions during a time of onion problem and possible onion crisis. Now I understood why all of these onions had to be under lock and key, and why Netaji could not let silly buggers like myself run free through the Mumbai streets until trust had been gained. I laughed to myself when I realized that Netaji was right not to trust me, because I would shortly be proving myself untrustworthy in the task of delivering five thousand kilos of onions to these bearded terrorists. I laughed again, and when I emerged from my brainwave, Iqbal was eyeing me suspiciously.

  You are acting funny, he said.

  No no, I said.

  You are not planning any funny business I hope, said Iqbal.

  Can there be any funnier business plans than delivering five thousand kilos of onions to Pakistani extremist groups? I said in hopes of diverting the question without actually answering it.

  Yes, said Iqbal, if you hope to divert the onion shipment from the Pakistani militants to the Mumbaikars, it would count as funny business.

  But Iqbal, I said.

  Iqbal looked shocked. I rarely call him by name, partly because I am always near to him when talking, and so I just talk and he knows I am talking to him.

  But Iqbal, I said again, how can we give away the crisp onions to a bunch of foreigners when our Mumbai brothers and sisters are without the same?

  That is not for us to question, said Iqbal, our government does that anyway through exports and other such trade agreements.

  So you do not want to question it, I said, just accept it?

  Now this hit Iqbal like a squirrel being hit by a samosa. He was quiet for many moments, and I could tell that he was thinking about the question and its relation to our aggressive stance on the truth and its pursuit. After many more moments of quiet thought, Iqbal finally looked directly at me, and immediately I knew that my brother in life was fully back on my wavelength.

  You are correct, he said, all this talk about onion reducing border conflict and what-not may be true, but we cannot simply accept the truth based on someone saying so. We will have to find out for ourselves first, and only then will we allow the shipment of onions to be delivered.

  18

  But how to find out for ourselves without transporting ourselves personally to the borders or even the interior provinces of Pakistan and interviewing the villagers? Of course, we would be up to the task—up north they speak only Hindi and Urdu, and we have good command over those two sister languages. But the problem is with the transportation and the explanation to our wives and also visa problems for Pakistan, which can be problematic for common Indians.

  We will have to question the liaisons themselves, said Iqbal firmly.

  What? I said, but that could be dangerous.

  Perhaps, said Iqbal, but nobody said pursuit of the truth is a safe thing to do.

  No, I said, in fact, if anything, they say the opposite.

  And this thought curdled my blood and bothered my digestive tract. After all, pursuit of truth led to Gandhiji’s untimely death at the hands of the villain Godse. And Iqbal and I were not as good in truth pursuit and not as noble and great as Gandhiji, so what hope would we have against villains with beards and AK47s?

  Will they have AK47s? I asked Iqbal.

  But now Netaji had re-entered the room, and he laughed when he heard my question.

  I see Iqbal has explained some of the plans but maybe not all of the details, he said.

  I looked at Iqbal and then at Netaji and then at the empty plate that once held the Bombay-duck. The plate was yellow and greasy, and perfectly reflected my state of mind and stomach at that crucial juncture in my life.

  Not to worry, said Netaji, the people you will meet are not murderers, they simply work for murderers.

  But is the servant of a terrorist-murderer also not a terrorist-murderer? I asked, just like the servant of a madman must necessarily be a madman himself.

  At this last statement Bhatkoo eyed me from through the door, but I think he was smart enough to know that a reaction from him would simply prove my point and expose him as a madman-servant of a madman-master. I felt good at my psychological manipulation, and this gave me some confidence when I thought about how I could use the same powers to extract data and other information from the servants of the bearded Pakistani terrorists.

  And technically speaking, the groups scheduled to meet us tomorrow are not yet murderers, said Netaji, since they are newly formed and have not made any attacks yet.

  Iqbal nodded and looked at me in earnest as if to apologize for not making this all-important point.

  I scratched myself and thought aloud. So they are terrorists in name only and not yet in deed and action, I said wisely.

  Correct, said Netaji, and you two, with a successful exchange of onions for weapons, can extend their period of philosophical-but-not-physical terrorism.

  Exchange? I said, again looking at Iqbal, who was now shifting about and looking up at the ceiling and then down at the tiles.

  Correct, said Netaji, you will give them onions, and they will give you weapons, and they will take the onions back to Pakistan, and you both will expunge the region of such weapons by dropping them into the Arabian Sea.

  Now Iqbal seemed very excited. He looked at me with a nodding head, and to tell the truth, I was excited as well. This was really good foreign relations work, something that truly was making some physical impact while ignoring the philosophical impact, which is important, since most foreign policy focuses on silly philosophical things while allowing people to get shot and raped and burned and what-not. This Netaji may be a madman and is probably not even really Netaji, but no one can deny his diplomacy and foreign policy wisdom at this point.

  Still, the presence of weapons would make it dangerous work nonetheless, and so I proceeded with caution, and tried to use my powers of reverse psychological manipulation.

  But tell me one thing Netaji, I said, will the guns and weapons be active and loaded?

  Perhaps, said Netaji, even though I have asked for bullets and bomb-detonators to be delivered in a separate boat,
you never know with terrorist groups that you have not worked with before.

  Boat? I asked. What boat?

  The boat that will carry the Pakistanis and the guns and the bombs from Pakistan, said Netaji. How else to bring them here? By bullock-cart through the Himalayas? Or by aeroplane and parachute? You are quite a silly bugger. It is good that Iqbal will be leader of the exchange operation.

  Iqbal seemed to take this as his cue to step up to me and explain the previously unexplained details of this highly dangerous and complicated mission. Apparently at this very moment Netaji’s attendants were loading up two boats with onions. Iqbal and me and Bhatkoo and one more attendant would be operating those boats, and we would be meeting two equivalent sized boats in the dark waters beyond the Haji-Ali darga. After exchanging codewords and pleasantries, we would effect an exchange of boats, and once the Pakistanis had taken the onion-boats away to the high seas, we were to sink the two gun-boats and return to shore as secret heroes and full members of Netaji’s Hydroponic Foreign Policy Institute.

  So we are to sink the gun-boats and swim back to the Haji-Ali darga? I asked Iqbal. In the water? In the dark? Are you mad? Have you become a madman also?

  No no no, said Netaji with a laugh. There will be another boat of mine that will come and meet you once the Pakistanis have gone. You will begin the sinking procedure, and then you will all be evacuated to the third boat and brought back to the Indian Motherland like secret heroes whose names nobody will know because our work must be kept secret.

  But can I tell my wife, I said.

  No no no, said Netaji, that could cause problems.

  Why? I said.

  I do not know your particular wife, said Netaji with his head bowed, and so I do not want to generalize, but many wives have a tendency to bring up practical obstacles to such plans as exchange of boats in the darkness and sinking two boats with thousands of kilos of guns and bombs and bullets and detonators.

  I thought about my wife and realized that perhaps she would point out some difficulties in the plan, and perhaps even try and persuade me to abort the plan and go to the police or the Navy or the Coast Guard.

  I see, I said quietly, I see.

  Good, said Netaji, good. This will happen tomorrow night, and so now you both can go home to your particular wives, but Bhatkoo and one more attendant will accompany you.

  19

  As we walked home, I noticed it was starting to get dark, and I remembered that I had not telephoned my wife to tell her I’ll not be home for lunch. But now it was already getting close to dinner time, so this could be a problem. And to top that off, I had to somehow explain why this Bhatkoo chap is accompanying me and staying in our house for one night and one day.

  I looked at my mobile phone and wondered why my wife had not called me. But then I realized that the mobile signal must not have been available in that dark hole of Netaji’s, and this was confirmed when I saw the voicemails and the text-mails that were inquiring on my lunch status at first and then overall status. So I quickly telephoned my wife.

  Hello baby, I said in a happy tone, I am coming home now.

  The wife was not happy, but she is a nice lady and she will not shout at me over the phone, and so the conversation was short enough and pleasant enough. Still, the problem of the Bhatkoo explanation remained, and I wondered what to do. I looked at Iqbal, the answer-man, and I realized that his problem of the day had at least been solved. He was still clutching the packet of onions, and it appeared he was having a pleasant conversation with the other attendant, the one I presumed would stay with him to keep watch and make sure no secrets were told and no Coast Guard was informed.

  What will you tell your wife about this man, I asked Iqbal as I pointed at the other attendant.

  You mean Shamoo? Iqbal asked, indicating that the other attendant was named Shamoo.

  Yes Shamoo, I said impatiently.

  What to tell? said Iqbal. The wife will not be meeting Shamoo, so there is nothing to tell.

  Why, I said, will he not be staying with you to keep watch?

  No, said Bhatkoo with a smirk, we are both assigned to you only for tonight.

  I looked at Bhatkoo and then at Shamoo, who at this point was showing a smirk of his own. I held my head and then my stomach, and I shook both head and stomach. It seemed like tonight would be more dangerous and stressful than tomorrow night.

  Not to worry, said Shamoo suddenly and loudly, we have brought our own food and our own bedrolls, and so we’ll not cause much maintenance and trouble for you and your wife and any others who may be in your flat.

  There are no others presently, I said, because my children are staying in college hostels.

  Then it will be no problem at all, said Shamoo loudly, we will eat while sitting on the floor, and we will sleep by placing the bedrolls on the floor, and it will be like we are not even there.

  But what will I tell my wife? I said with annoyance. How to explain you two buggers eating and sleeping on my floor suddenly?

  That is your problem, said Bhatkoo.

  No, I said loudly, it is your problem as well. My wife is a smart woman, and some weak story will not pass muster in my flat. If the story is not strong, she will ultimately find out the truth, and more than likely I will be beaten and you both will be arrested and all the boats will be intercepted by the Coast Guard tomorrow night.

  This seemed to worry Bhatkoo and Shamoo, and they looked at each other and then at Iqbal and then at me and then at the ground and then up at the darkening sky. At this point they could have easily made threats of violence, but since they did not, I understood that these people were not violent sorts and would not try any kind of strong-arm tactics. Perhaps Netaji was correct when he said that one could say he too is a Gandhian.

  Never mind it then, said Bhatkoo with a defeated sound in his voice, we will both sleep on the road outside your building tonight.

  But then my Gandhian heart became a little bit soft and I shook my head.

  No, I said, that will not do. If we are all to risk life and dryness together on the Arabian Seas tomorrow night, then it is only right that you sleep comfortably inside my flat tonight. I will make up some story, and if I get some beatings, then I will take them like a Gandhian.

  At hearing this, Bhatkoo looked at me with a respect that I had not seen in his previous expressions that day towards me, and I thought that perhaps I had won him over with my staunch adherence to the Gandhian principle of staunch adherence. After all, did Gandhiji himself not say that first they will laugh at you, and then you will win?

  20

  But victory was not to be won so easily by me, even though there had been no shortage of people who had laughed at me on this first day of our Gandhian adventures. The wife was not happy to see me come late, and as she began to shout at me for causing her some worry, she noticed the unannounced house guests and so she had to put on a smiley face and pull back her shouting, which made her more angry in the way that only I can tell. And in all this I had not even thought of a good story to tell her, but that is just as well, because who am I to think I can get away with lying to my dearest wife? I cannot, and so I subconsciously knew it is better to not say anything than to say something that is not true, because the latter way will lead only to shoutings and beatings for me. And so I was concise and business-like in my dealings with dearest wife that night.

  It is an important matter of business, I told her privately in the kitchen, and I cannot explain it all currently because it is complicated.

  So I am a simpleton wife who cannot understand complicated matters of business, is it? she asked me.

  No baby, I said, you know that it is me who is the simpleton in this family, and so it will give me a headache to try and explain it, and even if I explained it, it is not so interesting and you will possibly fall asleep while I explain, and I do not want you to fall asleep so quickly tonight, baby.

  Why not, she said with a smile.

  You know why not, I sai
d with a smile and a nudge.

  But what of your business colleagues, she asked, what if they hear us?

  We will keep the TV on in the bedroom and they will not hear anything, I said.

  The wife giggled and pushed me out of the kitchen, and I went back to the living room pleased at my double-victory. Not only had I handled the Bhatkoo-Shamoo situation without too much falsehood, but I would also be getting little bit of bedroom action. Good, I thought, because perhaps this will be the last time I see my beloved wife.

  And this moment was the first time I truly contemplated the danger and madness of what we would be attempting the following night in the Arabian Sea beyond the sacred island that contains the Haji Ali darga. And although by now I was confident that Netaji and his people were not of violent nature, this actually caused more worry, because what is the use of having nonviolent people with you if the opposing group is bent on inflicting violence on the high seas? The worry was showing on my face when I walked towards the spare room where Bhatkoo and Shamoo were preparing their bedrolls.

  RK-sahib, said Bhatkoo in a compassionate tone that I had not heard before, you do not need to worry. We are there, no? Nothing bad will happen to you and your friend Iqbal-ji. We have been given strict instructions that the personal safety of you two is more important than the personal safety of us two, and the safety of us four is paramount compared to any thoughts of onions or guns or bombs or bullets or detonators. If the situation goes bad, we have a perfect exit plan that cannot fail under any circumstance.