Wonderful, I said with relief.
Bhatkoo and Shamoo looked at each other and smiled proudly, and I got the feeling that they had done similar operations before, and so perhaps they were correct and so there would be no danger of lifelessness, although danger of wetness would certainly be there.
So what is the exit plan, I asked casually.
Ah no no no no, said Bhatkoo with that same old smirk once more.
Ay na na na na, said Shamoo with his own variation of that madman’s smirk.
What? I asked.
We cannot tell you the emergency exit plan, said Bhatkoo, because the plan is too good.
So good, said Shamoo, that if you learn of it you may decide to use it even if it is not an emergency situation.
Remember, said Bhatkoo, you are not fully trustworthy yet.
I nodded in agreement and took my leave of the two of them, but not before I invited them to join me and my wife for dinner at the table. With great gratefulness and huge humility they both declined and said they would eat their packed dinner in the room and sleep soon.
We are just servants, said Bhatkoo, and not fit to be eating at the table with your honorable wife.
Nonsense, I said, do not talk like that in the house of a Gandhian.
Why, said Shamoo, do your regular servants sit at the table and eat breakfast and drink tea with you and your wife?
No, I said with some discomfort, but those servants are employed by me and this is their workplace so I have a different relation with them.
Fine, said Bhatkoo, perhaps someday we will join you and your wife at the table.
But not today, said Shamoo.
Fine, I said as I took my leave, sleep well then and do not hesitate to wake me if there is an emergency.
Then as I walked away I remembered something and looked back at them.
But please knock on the bedroom door and wait for me to open it if such a situation arises, I said quickly as I thought about my wife and the TV.
21
The TV was still on when I awoke the next morning, the morning of the second day of our Gandhian adventures. I sat up immediately and looked at the time because I was worried about being late for work. After all, I had already missed the previous day due to imagined bus problem, and I could not miss another day. Anyway, today was Saturday, and even though Saturday has always been a full working day in India, things are changing in the Indian office culture nowadays and so it is becoming less of a working day. Still, I had to at least show my bulbous face at the office for a few hours, and I also wanted to get out of the house and not have to face my wife and any more detailed questions about how come I have work colleagues staying with me but I am missing work for two days in a row.
I took bath and dressed myself and only then went to check and see if Bhatkoo and Shamoo were awake and ready. Their room was empty when I arrived, and for a second I hoped that the previous day was all a dream induced by not eating proper lunch. But as I became convinced that it was indeed a dream, I experienced the funny feeling of sadness, like I was sad that it was a dream. That could only mean one thing: I was becoming a true Gandhian and becoming addicted to the aggressive pursuit of passive resistance.
Fooled you, came a voice from the ceiling.
Yes yes, came another voice from another part of the ceiling.
I looked up to see Bhatkoo and Shamoo suspended from different-different parts of the same ceiling. After rubbing my eyes to make sure it was not another dream like how sometimes in a dream you dream of other things, I examined the situation and found that it was not as fantastical as I had previously supposed. Bhatkoo and Shamoo were individually suspended by long cloths and bedsheets that they had affixed to large hooks that I had once used to hang a very large swing. I do not know why they had decided to do such a silly thing, but at least it was clear to me that their doing so was not a sign of the supernatural and more likely a sign of the mental instability of these poor servants who may have spent too much time in a dark hydroponic hole doing strange things for a one-hundred-year-old madman with the skin of a soap model.
We saw the hooks and could not resist, said Bhatkoo as he lowered himself and then went to help Shamoo come down without incident.
Yes, I said, the hooks are indeed unresistable.
Both of them laughed, and they were pleased when I offered them fresh tea and some hot toast and butter and jam. It seemed that they had not packed any food for breakfast.
We finished breakfast, and although I offered to allow use of my spare bathroom for them to bathe, they said it would not be necessary at that point, and they would bathe later at the hydroponics headquarters. Of course, I informed them that I would have to go to office for at least three-to-four hours, but they laughed and said not to worry about office because Netaji has taken care of it already.
Means what? I asked in worry, fearing that Netaji has sent some madman to my office to relieve me of my hard-earned office job.
Not to worry, said Bhatkoo, Netaji will explain when we arrive at his place.
What about Iqbal? I said.
Iqbal-ji already knows that Netaji has engineered a release from Saturday work for you both, said Shamoo, and so he will meet us near the pao-bhaji-walla shortly, and we will all walk to the courtyard where Netaji must be finishing up his sweeping duties by now.
I felt a small bit of worry with mention of the pao-bhaji-walla. After all, it was due to fleeing from the pao-bhaji-walla that we first came across the previously undiscovered courtyard of Netaji’s. In some way it seemed fitting that our second day of Gandhian adventures also begins with a sighting of the pao-bhaji-walla, and perhaps it would not be so bad to eat a few quick plates of his special bhaji before starting this day.
And Netaji says that you are not to eat any pao-bhaji, said Bhatkoo as if my thoughts were available for all to read.
Why not, I demanded.
Because of danger of sea-sickness later, said Shamoo.
Yes, said Bhatkoo, today you will be on a strict diet prepared in the house of Netaji.
Although this troubled me, as any talk of others restricting my diet troubled me, I did not argue, because now I was a seasoned Gandhian, and I expected some hardships and sacrifices to line my path to the truth.
Fine, I said, no pao-bhaji then.
Luckily Iqbal was already near the pao-bhaji stand so we did not have to wait there, and luckily there was a surprising number of people eating pao-bhaji so early in the morning. But as we walked past the stand and towards the main road, the pao-bhaji-walla’s helper caught sight of me and came running to me with the pieces of his bucket that I had broken the previous day. At first I thought to run, then I decided to stand and fight, but soon I realized that neither was necessary because the pao-bhaji-walla himself had called his helper back and ordered him to leave me alone.
My eyes met the wise eyes of the pao-bhaji-walla, and he gave me a look of respect and recognition, and then I saw his eyes move past me and settle on Bhatkoo. The pao-bhaji-walla nodded at Bhatkoo as if there was some secret knowledge that existed between the two of them, and then soon that entire scene was over and we were once again standing in the courtyard that was swept clean of all dirt and dust and other particles of rubbish that you see even on the cleanest of Mumbai’s streets.
Netaji was nowhere to be seen. Now again I started to wonder if even though Bhatkoo and Shamoo were real, perhaps Netaji was a dream. Just as I was vowing to myself to start eating a meal in between breakfast and lunch to reduce risk of hallucination and daytime dreams, Netaji sprung into action from behind one pillar of his building.
Aha RK-sahib, he said with a fresh-faced smile, and Iqbal-ji.
Good morning, I said with some mixed feelings.
Hello, said Iqbal with some other feeling.
Come, said Netaji, let us go inside and talk about the plan for tonight.
But it is still nice here and not too warm yet, I said in a hope to stall the descent into this madm
an’s hole once more. Although I admit I was somewhat excited about our plans for the evening, mostly I was scared, and some delay when you are scared is simply natural, is it not?
Nothing to be scared about, said Bhatkoo, we are there, no?
I looked at him and Shamoo, and even in spite of their morning display of mental instability, I believed that they were serious about providing for the safety of myself and Iqbal, my brother in life. And while their morning display may have indicated mental instability, it also indicated physical stability of equal proportions, and if there was some funny business to occur on the high seas this night, then physical stability would be more important to have than mental stability, I thought. And so I smiled and proceeded with the group of my new friends back into the deep dark hole with the hydroponics and what-not.
The place smelled little different today, and immediately I inquired as to the cause of this difference. Iqbal of course looked at me with that look that said why are you asking irrelevant questions at a time like this, but now I was comfortable with my safety and so I felt free to ask questions that may or may not be relevant. And sometimes of course you will not know if a question is relevant until you hear the answer, is that not correct?
Very observant, said Netaji with a smile.
Yes, said Bhatkoo.
The onions have been taken away and packed, said Netaji, and so there is no longer the sweet subversive smell of the onion in this building anymore.
Ah yes, I said while looking at Iqbal with victory in my eyes.
But soon I remembered that it was Iqbal and myself who would be smelling of sweetness and subversiveness today and tonight, because as we had decided, we would have to find a way to question the terrorist liaisons to determine for ourselves whether this onion exchange was really preventing violence at the borders and in the villages and towns where violence is a daily thing. As we gathered in the sitting area and Netaji was occupied in talking to Bhatkoo and Shamoo, I reminded Iqbal of our subversive plan.
But, said Iqbal, if we are exchanging onions for weapons and then destroying the weapons, then is that not proof enough that violence will be reduced?
I think you are losing some of your Gandhian aggressiveness, I said, and perhaps you are not eating enough breakfast in the morning.
Why you say that, asked Iqbal.
Because, I said, elimination of some guns and bombs may not automatically reduce violence because we do not know the total number of guns and bombs these groups possess. And also they may use other weapons like spears and swords and large stones.
So what you want to do, said Iqbal, ask them to hand over all the large stones from Pakistan?
Now I was sure that Iqbal had not eaten properly because he was being very short on both temper and patience. So for now I let it go, but internally I had already decided that if questioning indicates that the onions will not be distributed to poor villagers in Pakistan to dissuade them from taking up arms, then we would have to turn the tables on the high Arabian Seas and sink the gun-boats and also take back the onion boats so that the onions can be distributed to the Mumbaikars for bhajias and pakoras and samosas and other savory onion-flavored things.
Then a brainwave hit me that if these terrorist liaisons return to Pakistan having lost the gun-boats but not gained the onion-boats, then perhaps they themselves would be in danger of being violated by their violent leaders. At first that did not seem too bad to me. But then I remembered that the whole point of Gandhian nonviolence is to follow the nonviolent principle when faced with violent people. That is how you win.
But Netaji interrupted my brainwave just then, leaving me in a state of confusion about the soundness of my subversive plan for the evening.
Now remember, said Netaji as he pointed at a nautical chart of the Mumbai coastline, the Haji Ali darga will be your beacon in the dark, and so all bearings must be taken in relation to it.
The Haji Ali darga, for those of you that do not know it, is a beautiful structure that looks little bit like a mosque because of domes and minarets, but is actually just a memorial site for a Muslim holy man called Haji Ali who supposedly died in those waters. The building was built on a small rock island some distance away from the mainland, and the way to get there is via a long stone walkway that stretches through the sea itself. Thousands and thousands of Indians and foreigners walk along this walkway every day to visit the darga and pay respects and in return they receive fulfillment of whatever wish they ask for. Of course, the wish has to be somewhat reasonable, I think. You cannot ask to be given wings and be allowed to fly. But who knows with such things. This is India after all, and such things as human flight is sometimes rumored.
But anyway, according to our plan, the onion boats would be pushed off from the mainland within sight of the Haji Ali darga. We would take the boats about one hundred meters beyond the darga, which is safe enough that late-night visitors would not see our boats, but we would still be able to see the bright white, yellow, and green lights from the Haji Ali rock island. We would remain quietly there in the dark until we see the light of the Pakistani gun-boats. They would flash a particular code signal with the light, and we would return the flash with a different code signal. It would be a classic maritime meeting plan, and as we went through the details again and again in order for it to be committed to memory, I felt excited and confident that the plan would go smooth, and perhaps there would not be any need for subversion after all, and we would just make the exchange, sink the gun-boats, and transfer ourselves to the third boat that Netaji would send later.
But then later as we were all eating lunch back upstairs under some shade near the courtyard, Iqbal came up to me with a look that I immediately took to be of aggression and subversiveness, but all directed towards the pursuit of the truth.
Perhaps you are correct, he said, and we will need to conduct our own questioning and pass judgment on the high seas itself and then aggressively take action along the true path.
I smiled as I thought about the perfect balance between myself and Iqbal, my brother in life. When I am aggressive, he is passive, and when I become passive, his aggressiveness comes to the front like a squirrel chasing a samosa.
I nodded in agreement and said nothing because there was nothing more to be said at that point. After my most recent brainwave I had realized that the possibilities were endless, and so speculating on the possible truths was pointless. The only thing that mattered was the one single simple truth, and that could not be arrived at by speculation but only by manipulation of the psychologies of these terrorist liaisons that we would meet on the high Arabian Seas that night.
22
That evening I stopped by my home to meet my wife, and I told her that tonight I’ll be staying at those same colleagues’ house in order to complete the last bit of the business matter. My wife was very suspicious, but she did not say anything and simply gave me a look that said if you are up to any funny business, you will be beaten like a dog in the street. Of course, by funny business she was not thinking of funny business with another woman or anything like that. She knows me well enough that such trust is not an issue, especially after the recent resurgence of our bedroom activities. But the trust is not so much there that I will not get involved in something that may later turn out to be quite silly.
In my pre-Gandhian days I had done many silly things which I will not repeat here, but now those days are gone and I am doing important and sensible things. I almost wanted to tell my sweet wife what I was about to engineer on the high seas, but I thought better of it and quickly left the house before any such information was forthcoming.
We travelled to the Haji Ali area quite early so that we could inspect our boats and make sure we were aware of the mechanics of boat-manipulation. Iqbal and I were to command the leading boat, and Bhatkoo and Shamoo were to be on the second boat. The boats would be attached together with a long and thick rope so that they would not drift far apart. At first I was little bit worried about how Iqb
al and myself could handle a big boat with two-thousand-five-hundred kilos of onions, but when I saw the actual boats I understood.
The lead boat was much smaller, and now I understood that it was to make it easier for us to get close to the terrorist lead boat and make the formalities of the exchange in a formal manner. The second boat was quite a monstrous thing, and I was happy that I would not be in command of it. Both boats smelled sweet and fine with onions, and at first I worried that maybe people around us will notice and hijack us before we have even left the mainland. But then I shook my head and reminded myself not to confuse myself with too many different possibilities and to focus only on the task at hand.
I was made to wear a black kurta with black pajamas and black rubber chappals. Iqbal was dressed in a fine black sherwani, and he looked like a truly great and powerful Muslim leader at that point, what with his finely shaped beard and thin Aurangzeb-like face. But then I remembered that Aurangzeb had imprisoned his father and killed all his brothers so that there would be no dispute about who gets to be the king, and so I removed all such historical references from my mind.
Bhatkoo and Shamoo were also dressed in black, but their clothes were little bit older and dirtier, perhaps part of a strategy to make it clear who the leaders were.
We boarded our respective boats, and immediately I was thankful that I had not eaten any special bhaji that morning. I quickly realized that the negative side of the small boat was that it moved this way and that way very easily even in calm seas.
This is why I wanted to come here early, said Netaji, so you get used to standing on this boat as it rocks from side to side.
Yes, said Bhatkoo, very important.
Correct, said Netaji, they must think you are a master of the high Arabian Seas.
Or they will not respect you, said Shamoo.
And without respect, said Bhatkoo, all could be lost.
What nonsense, I said, we do not respect the terrorists, but still we are doing the transaction, and so respect is not a prerequisite for the smooth flow of the onions-for-weapons exchange.
The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel Page 9