No, shouted Veeru, you come here.
And this went on for some time until the sun moved higher in the sky and everyone went back inside their shaded accommodations areas for some refreshments and maybe some gargling with salt water to re-energize the vocal cords for more shouting between international waterspace and Indian waterspace. As we sat inside the onion-boat’s one large room, I was quite happy with the situation, but it seemed that Yoosuf and Iqbal, the two answer-men, were not so pleased with this political stalemate that we had engineered through the smartness of these Pakistanis.
The problem, said Iqbal, is they will have more supplies and hence can simply wait for us to run out of food and water.
And then, said Yoosuf, we will be forced to appeal to them to save us from starvation.
The thought of starvation at first made me hungry, but then I received a massive brainwave.
No, I said, we will win because we are Gandhians.
Iqbal looked at me like I had swallowed some salt water and gone mad, and then I think he understood.
Hunger strike, said Iqbal with a smile.
Hunger strike, I said.
And now our Gandhian adventures had truly reached Himalayan proportions.
30
Of course, the key thing about a hunger strike is that the opposing party must be made aware that you are on a hunger strike. If they do not know, then chances are you will simply die without anyone realizing until you are dead. And so we had to do something very brave and perhaps foolish, but necessary.
We stood on the deck of our boat, and in plain sight of the Indian Navy people, we emptied all our remaining food items into the sea. Then I shouted to them and explained that we are Gandhians and we would be on a hunger strike up until death or the time when the Navy ship retreats and disappears from sight. If death comes first, I told them, then it will be due to the persistent pursuit of the Indian Navy, and since the deaths would occur in international waterspace, it would no doubt result in a massive international war.
At first the Navy sailors laughed at us, but then their captain came out and listened to the situation, and all the Navy people went serious. They attempted to speak to us some more, but we refused any reply in order to conserve energy for our hunger strike. I was not well experienced in hunger, but from my limited understanding of biological warfare, I knew that in absence of regular food, the human body would simply begin to digest itself beginning with non-vital organs like ear-lobe and spleen.
The Pakistanis had been very quiet since the initiation of this plan, and I was not sure if they were upset about following a Gandhian rule or if they were also simply conserving energy. Of course, we secured all persons’ agreement before throwing away the food. And we were not so stupid, because we did not throw away the fresh drinking water. We knew that proper hunger strike rules allow for drinkage of water on a daily basis.
But of course, our master plan was quite simple, and in fact our entire hunger strike strategy was dependent on this master plan. Since death was not part of our plan, we would still have to survive long enough to arrive at Pakistani shores where we could buy fresh biryani or kabaabs. And since we were in the company of two great Pakistani preparers of food and one great Indian consumer of food, we knew the great secret of the onion.
Yes. The secret is that one can survive on onion alone indefinitely. And by indefinitely, I mean full life and even beyond if necessary. The onion has very high vitamin and mineral content, as well as all major food groups such as spice and flavor. So we knew that once we have defeated the Indian Navy, we could survive on onions until we reached the kabaab-grills of the Pakistani mainland.
The Indian Navy did not give up immediately. But sometime during the nighttime, when I awoke to make sure my ear-lobes had not been digested by my starving body, I saw that the Indian Navy ship had lifted its anchors and was preparing to leave. In great joy I woke up everyone on our onion boats.
We have won, I shouted, through Gandhian tactics.
All the remaining Indians and Pakistanis crawled out of their sleeping holes and joined me on deck to take delight in our victory over the Indian Navy, and once the big ship had turned and moved far from us, we celebrated by opening one bag of onions and sharing some sweet and spicy slices in the clear night as we bounced gently in the international waterspace that lies between the seas owned by Pakistan and India.
We have won for now, said Yoosuf as his eyes watered from victory emotions and onion juices, but we still have a long journey left and who knows what is to come.
31
Luckily no one knew beforehand what was to come, or else we might have surrendered our onions immediately and taken refuge in the Indian Navy ship.
The storm came very silently, but when it arrived, things became quite noisy. The boats were thrown about like little buckets, and if there had not been a thick rope connecting our two onion boats, we would have been separated forever. The rains were quite hard, and combined with the waves it resulted in a very wet experience for all of us. And at one point the movement of the boats became so extreme that we had to all go down to the lowest onion hatch and jam ourselves between the bags of onions so that our heads did not get bashed against the wooden sides of the boat.
This may have continued all day and all night. I could not tell because the sky was dark from dark clouds, and being in the onion hatch for so long made us lose sense of time as well as sense of balance. Even the calm answer-men Yoosuf and Iqbal were shouting in fear as the boat seemed sure to turn upside down and convert us into floating objects never to be found again.
Then we heard and felt a loud crash, and our boat became still.
At first I thought the storm had suddenly stopped, but I could hear the rain still coming down from above our heads and the thunder making thundering noises. Then I thought that maybe we have been taken upon the back of the giant turtle that lives in the water, but I knew that the turtle was just a mythological story, and anyway it lives in the Bay of Bengal, which is on the other side of India. Regardless, for at least two-three hours more no one was feeling balanced enough to go upstairs and check. But then, since we had not been moving for a long time, and also the rain pressure seemed to have lowered slightly, I took on the heroic job of going upstairs to encounter the giant Bengali turtle or whatever other danger that was in our path.
When I reached upstairs I found that the sky was looking lighter and the wind was slower. But more interesting was that it seemed there was no turtle or anything, and in fact we had hit upon some land area, because I could see in the not-so-far distance some sandy beaches and even some lights beyond the beaches. I thanked the gods for securing our safety, because some time back there had been no hope of our survival. Even our remaining drinking water had been spilled, and although the rainwater is drinkable, we had not concerned ourselves with capturing any of it.
I quickly told the rest of the people that we are saved and perhaps we are even in Pakistan now. Yoosuf and Iqbal and Veeru came up quickly, and then the other Pakistani from the other boat showed his face and waved to us to indicate that he was alive. Bhatkoo and Shamoo were also fine, but they had been very quiet for the past two days, ever since their betrayal had been exposed and I had threatened to chop up Shamoo and his non-vitals.
Yoosuf went to check the GPS or GQ-meter, but apparently the water had destroyed it.
I hope we are in Pakistan, he said, but I cannot be sure.
We will have to go find some people on the shore and ask them, I said.
Then I worried about my visa situation. If this was Pakistan, then would they not arrest me immediately for being an alien lander? But then I remembered that Pakistani and Indian people are basically the same, so I would just say I am a Pakistani and give some verbal abuses to India and then ask for some mutton biryani so that my starving body does not digest itself.
I will come with you, said Yoosuf.
I will come too, said Iqbal.
Me also, said Veeru
.
No, said Yoosuf to Veeru, you stay here and protect the onions. Besides, if we are arrested or killed, you can then immediately push the boats out to sea and complete our mission.
Yes okay, said Veeru.
I looked at Iqbal, and he looked very tired and weak, and so I told him to stay behind in case this is Pakistan and I am taken away to be fed to the mountain rats. This way he can telephone my wife and tell her that I died in a Gandhian manner at least.
And so Yoosuf and myself stepped out of the boat into the waist-high water and began to make our way towards the smooth pebbles and sand of the shore. There was no one to be seen, but it was either early in the morning or late in the evening, neither of which is a popular time for beach parties. The walk out of the beach and towards the lights was longer than expected, but at least it was good that we had been deposited on a beach that was within a village. Finally we arrived at one establishment that looked like a restaurant, but a very cheap and empty place. There was no signpost on it, and so we could not see if the sign is in Hindi or Urdu, and so we still did not know if this was India or Pakistan, but at this point it did not matter as long as we were given some food and water.
The restaurant owner came out to us and I spoke to him in Hindi and Yoosuf spoke to him in Urdu, and he replied to us in some mixture of Hindi and Urdu, which is not helpful for determining location, because Hindi and Urdu are approximately same-sounding in words and grammar and what-not. And so we just asked him what place this was.
Porbandar, he said.
At this I was taken aback, and I started to believe that perhaps our Gandhian adventures were not over and perhaps the Gandhian adventures had actually just begun.
I looked at Yoosuf and smiled. It appeared that Yoosuf was not familiar with the village of Porbandar, and so I informed him with pride.
Porbandar is in the Indian state of Gujarat, I said.
Ah Gujarat, said Yoosuf, that is not bad because Gujarat is a border state to Pakistan. But Porbandar I have not heard of.
Porbandar, I said with Gandhian calmness, is the birthplace of our man Bapu. Gandhiji was born here on this very soil.
32
Once we returned to the boats and informed the others of our symbolic landing place, everyone was quiet for some time, and I think I understood finally why sailors and such people are so superstitious when they are saved from deathly storms and other sea emergencies. Of course, for us it was even more reason to be superstitious due to the fact that our Gandhian pursuits had resulted in our being deposited on the beach where young Bapu must have played as a child. Gandhi of course must have been a nonviolent child, I thought, but nonetheless he would have been civilly disobedient and possibly a handful for his parents.
Of course, Gujarati people are known as great businesspeople in India, and since as it is Porbandar is a poor village, the restaurant owner was not impressed with our Gandhian credentials since the credentials were unaccompanied by any money whatsoever. The owner gave us some fresh water and also some bread and lentils so we would not die on his property, but he did not let us use his cell phone or order any of the fancy dishes on his menu.
We have onions, said Bhatkoo suddenly from the rear of our group.
How many, said the restaurant owner.
Lots, said Shamoo, and lots.
Bring them, said the restaurant owner, and I will allow you to use my cell phone and also I will prepare some fine baingan bharta and fresh rotis for everyone.
Baingan bharta is an eggplant dish that is very delicious, and roti is of course the wheat flat bread that everywhere is eaten but just now sounded like the best dish of all. I turned to Shamoo and Bhatkoo and smiled at them for the first time since my unrestrained slapping of their faces, and when I saw their faces light up due to my smile, I felt that maybe I had been unnecessarily harsh with them. After all, they were poor servants who had stayed in my home and suspended themselves from my ceiling. They were only acting on orders from their master Netaji, and although the double and triple deals were very complicated and somewhat suspicious, in general even Netaji’s intentions seemed okay.
As Bhatkoo and Shamoo returned to the boats to fetch a five-kilo bag of onions, we discussed our plan of action.
We must telephone our people in Pakistan, said Veeru, and have them send jeeps or trucks to the border.
At this point no one wanted to get back into the boats due to previous sea emergencies, and plus we had observed that the propellers and rudder of the big boat had been broken off in the storm. Yoosuf and Veeru wanted to use some onions to perhaps arrange for a truck or bullock carts to carry them and the remaining onions to the border where they would meet some other Pakistanis and complete their journey.
And we must telephone Netaji, said Iqbal, and shout at him for his multiple dealings that almost got us killed.
Yes, I said, but first at least let us tell him to arrange for some train tickets or bus tickets for us so we can return to Mumbai. And then we will talk with him about these dealings when we are safely home.
Iqbal smiled and nodded and I think he was impressed at how calm and focused I had become since my dealings with the Americans and the Indian Navy and now the Gujarati businessmen.
Bhatkoo and Shamoo returned with the onion bag, and judging by the reaction of the restaurant owner, we had priced the onions very low. He gave us his cellphone to keep, and he even opened some cold drinks for us to have with the bharta and roti. Yoosuf made his calls to the Pakistanis first, and then he gave us the phone to call Netaji and others in Mumbai.
Netaji must have been waiting for the call because he answered immediately and with great concern in his voice.
You are all safe, he said with relief, even Bhatkoo and Shamoo.
Yes, I said, but the weapons and the onions are all gone.
No matter, he said, no matter at all.
His lack of concern for the goods and major concern for our persons made even Iqbal calm down, and we made arrangements for him to use electronic and long-distance payment methods to secure tickets for all four of us on the train to Mumbai.
Come quickly, he said to me as I was about to put down the phone, because your wife has found me and I am being abused in manners that is even worse than when the Japanese arrested me for public urination in 1973.
33
How my wife must have found Netaji I do not know, but this way at least she would unleash some anger and beatings upon that man first, which would hopefully reduce my own quota of beatings. And also I was happy that at least Netaji could inform her of my safety, and I would not need to call her just now. I was too weak and full of eggplant and roti to endure even verbal abuse just now, and I happily sat in the restaurant and took a nap as the Pakistanis along with Iqbal and Bhatkoo and Shamoo went out to the town to find some place to sleep for the night.
Bhatkoo and Shamoo returned to fetch me in a few hours, and we all went to a small Gujarati guest house owned by a very sweet old man and woman. These owners did not ask us many questions, and the little bit of money we had asked from the restaurant owner as part of the onion exchange was sufficient for three big sleeping rooms and with inclusive dinner and then breakfast the next morning.
Iqbal had gone with the Pakistanis to ask about some lorries or bullock carts to transport the onions. I did not worry about it because Iqbal is a good negotiator, and I felt it would be quite easy for him to arrange for someone to drive the Pakistanis to the border in exchange for one or two bags of onions.
I laughed at how funny it was that the onion problem was actually to our benefit now because the shortage had made our bags very useful as currency after our sea emergency. Of course, at that point, perhaps because we were in Bapu’s hometown, I did not think this would cause any problems. So when Iqbal came running into our guest room covered with dirt and sweat from running, I was shocked.
They have been taken, he shouted.
Who has been taken, I shouted.
The onions, he shou
ted, and the Pakistanis.
Means what, I said in terror.
Means we found some people who said they will drive trucks with our supplies, said Iqbal, and when they found out we would pay them in onions, they were fine with it.
And then? I asked.
And then we took them back to where the boats were tied up and began to load the onions, said Iqbal, and once the onions were loaded they grabbed hold of us and laughed and said they are seizing all the onions.
How did you run away? I asked.
With my feet you silly bugger, shouted Iqbal.
My brother in life appeared almost mad with anger and worry, and I too was worried about what would happen to our Pakistani brothers at the hands of some onion-crazed Gujarati mob. Death could easily result from mobbing activities, and especially if mobbing is being done against Pakistanis. In Gujarat there has been lots of anti-Muslim propaganda over the past few years, and sometimes these poor villagers who do not have schooling and do not have any Pakistani friends may react with extremist tendencies.
We must save them, I shouted, Bhatkoo-Shamoo come here you two.
Bhatkoo and Shamoo were in the next room, and they came running when I called. I explained the situation while Iqbal washed his face and did some actions which I think were Muslim prayer techniques that I had never seen him use previously.
Quickly we hurried away, but at that point we had no plan for rescue. In fact, we did not even know where to go in search of our Pakistani brothers, but now Bhatkoo and Shamoo came to the forefront and we were glad to have them with us.
Shamoo will use his tracking mechanism, said Bhatkoo, so let us first go to the sea shore where the abduction of onions and Pakistanis occurred.
I wondered if Shamoo had affixed yet another tracking device to the onion bags or something, but it was nothing to do with electronics or any such artificial mechanisms.
The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel Page 13