The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel

by Zubin J. Shroff

  At least Kailash seemed to have stopped threatening to kill me, and I could see that even he was laughing with his friends and throwing bread and other things at me. He looked like a boy again and not a murderer, and I began to think that he was lying about being a murderer and certainly lying about intending to kill me. I had seen this dynamic also before with groups of young boys, when one of them tries to act extra tough and dangerous but it is probably due to lack of self-confidence. His father must have been quite mean to him, I thought, and not given him enough encouragement and attention.

  And then came my latest brainwave, just as a piece of roti bounced off my nose as if to tell me I had hit upon the perfect plot.

  Yes, I thought, I will focus my energies and Gandhian spirit on this Kailash boy.

  I laughed internally as I watched Kailash laughing at me. First they laugh at you, then they fight you, then they give up, and then you win.

  36

  I am ready to die, I told Kailash in a calm and confident voice while staring at him directly but not in a confrontational way.

  The boys had finished up their food, and some of them had left, perhaps to go for work or to their homes or something. Nitin and Kailash and one other boy had remained, and they had tied me up after allowing me to go to the bathroom. Only Nitin and Kailash were close to me, and so I took this as a good moment to begin a Gandhian dialogue with this poor boy.

  No one can be ready to die, said Kailash with a look of scornfulness.

  A Gandhian is always ready to die in the pursuit of truth, I said.

  Hah, said Kailash, and what truth are you pursuing?

  Whatever it is, I said smugly, it is not your concern.

  You are a fatso fool, he said and tried to ignore me.

  I am no different from you, I said, because you are also ready to die for your cause, are you not?

  What cause? he said absent-mindedly.

  The cause of robbery and thuggery and quick profit, I said and I gave Nitin a quick look and saw that he flinched.

  No one will be dying except for you, said Kailash.

  Then what is the delay, I said, I already told you I am ready to die.

  At this Kailash was quiet, and I could see now that I was correct. Without the full audience of his boys, he was not as aggressive and angry, and now I felt I was close to the third or fourth stage in the Gandhian progression of passive resistance: soon he would give up, and then I would win.

  I wondered if I should explain to him that if he killed me then he was risking his own life either at the ends of some Pakistani mutton-choppers or the hangman’s rope, but I decided not to say all this. My feeling was that Nitin and the others must have already understood this, because I had heard all of them mention fear of police before. And so my best plan would be to try and simply get them to release me.

  But of course by now I had become married to my cause, the cause of the onions. I knew that one way or the other, the onions had to get back into the hands of Yoosuf and Veeru, and the more nonviolence involved the better. I wondered how to explain to these boys the importance of the onion mission, and how it was a miracle that on our Gandhian mission we landed in Gandhiji’s hometown, and how our delivery of the onions to the Pakistanis would in fact contribute in some way to greater peace along the borders that even Gujarat shared with our neighboring country.

  Then I remembered how my own son loved to listen to stories even up until he went to college. And so I took one more look at these boys who were sitting quietly after their meal, and I began to tell the story of our Gandhian adventures.

  I began at the beginning, and I described everything. I told of the small onion problem that turned into a massive expedition that took us far away from home and onto the high Arabian Seas where we encountered Israelis and Americans and Indians and other sea creatures, and I could see that these boys were captivated and mesmerized by my tales.

  And by the time the doors of the warehouse burst open and Iqbal and Bhatkoo and Shamoo came in with big sticks and behind them Yoosuf and Veeru waving mutton-choppers, these three young boys that were not really bad people but just mischievous and unfortunate not to have proper upbringing had already untied me, and we were drinking tea together, and they had already promised to drive the Pakistanis to the border and then even drop me and Iqbal and Bhatkoo and Shamoo to the train station.

  After I quieted down my rescuers and explained everything, the situation came again under control, and everyone finally sat down and the boys even got some more tea and water for everyone. It was indeed a Gandhian moment of epic proportions, where those that were once enemies are now drinking tea while sitting on the ground in Gandhiji’s hometown in Gujarat.

  How far is the border from here? said Yoosuf after some time.

  Few hours’ drive, said Kailash, but first we will have to go in the other direction.

  Why is that, said Yoosuf, to avoid border patrols?

  Kailash and Nitin and the other boy laughed as if the concept of border patrols was a funny joke.

  No no, said Nitin, we know how to go straight through the border without any worry of patrols.

  Then why go in the opposite direction? said Veeru.

  Because, said Kailash, first we will go and retrieve the batches of onions that we rudely stole from you and sold off.

  37

  It turned out that the boys had sold the onions to that same restaurant owner whom we had met first near the sea shore. They must have arranged with him at the sea shore itself, and then they had driven to his storage place far off, which is where I encountered them by laying on the road.

  There was no issue with retrieving the onions, because there were ten of us and this poor restaurant man was alone with his wife and one old cow in the field. Nitin and Kailash and the boys were even so good that they returned the money to him, but only after subtracting some amount for the petrol costs, and this was only because that money had already been spent. Still, the restaurant man was very scared and even surprised that we gave back his money. Then immediately both trucks began to drive in the direction of the Pakistani border, and Yoosuf made one more phone call to his people to say he is coming.

  Our journey was very quiet, because I think all of us were little bit sad that our Gandhian adventures were coming to a close. I could tell that Iqbal was feeling as sad as me, and Yoosuf and Veeru I think were quiet because of sadness as well. It is like how when you are enduring a stressful experience it feels stressful and you want it to stop, but when it stops and you are released from the stress you silently wish for that feeling of excitement once more.

  We will meet again, I finally said out loud to my Pakistani brothers who were sitting across from us in the back of one of the onion trucks.

  Without doubt, said Yoosuf with a smile.

  We will consider this business unfinished until you have eaten our specially prepared mutton biryani and chicken kabaabs, said Veeru.

  Perhaps we will kidnap you again and make you cook for us, I said with a smile as I rubbed my bulbous stomach which actually had shrunk little bit after two hunger strikes and all that jogging in the hot sun.

  You will not need to kidnap us, said Yoosuf, because we would gladly come and cook for you.

  It was nightfall when we arrived at the border, and by this time Iqbal pointed out that we had missed our train back to Mumbai. It was not a big concern, because the tickets were transferable and so we would just take the morning train. It was more important to say goodbye to our new Pakistani brothers and our new Gujarati friends.

  There was no border patrol to be seen as Nitin and Kailash had promised, and indeed, there was not even a visible border at the point of our crossing. Finally we saw some lights in the distance, and Yoosuf made one more phone call to confirm that it was indeed his Pakistani people. We drove up to them and stopped.

  There was much hugging and loud voices of congratulations from the receiving Pakistanis, and they seemed to be peaceful people like Yoosuf and Veer
u, and we did not see any guns or anything. Nitin and Kailash and those other boys seemed nervous and suspicious at first, but soon everyone was introduced and everyone realized that we are all basically the same people, and just like there is no visible border where we stand, there is no real difference between us.

  Everyone began to transfer the onions from the Indian trucks to the Pakistani trucks, and when the first Pakistani truck was filled and they began to load the second truck, Veeru gave out a shout from the back.

  Ay, he said to his people, what are these bags here?

  Oh not to worry, said one of his people, that is some fresh goat and chicken meat that we picked up along the way. We will make a camp and cook it later when we are back in the interior of Pakistan.

  No, said Yoosuf with a smile, we will cook it now.

  A great cheer came up from the other Pakistanis, and I guessed that these people had missed the great cooking skills of Yoosuf and Veeru, and so even I shouted in joy with them. Quickly they unloaded the fresh meat and other cooking supplies, and Bhatkoo and Shamoo and Kailash and Nitin and some of the Pakistanis quickly found some firewood and started up a great fire right there on the invisible border of our two great nations.

  One big bag of onions was opened up, and we all took part in the peeling and chopping of the sweet bulbous bulb that had brought all of us to this place. Some others shared with the grinding of spices and dicing of tomatoes and shredding of chillies and boiling of rice for the biryani and mincing of chicken meat for the kabaabs. Everyone’s hands had been involved in each of the food dishes, and in that way it was as symbolic as even the way the crescent moon was sitting in the sky and smiling and laughing at us.

  Of course, the final mixing of the ingredients and supervision of the cooking was done by the masters, Yoosuf and Veeru, and when it was ready, we all sat together and gave praise to God without calling God by name.

  And then we ate.

  38

  The food of course was as magical as the situation, and if I try to describe it with words even the best words would be an insult to it. Even now as I write this, Iqbal, the skinny one who does not think of food as I do, is reminiscing about that biryani and those kabaabs. But I think both of us know what all great cooks and lovers of food know—that the quality and taste of the food cannot be considered separately from the occasion and circumstances of preparation of that food. And so we will let go of talk of that occasion of the food and the cooking and the celebrations around the fire in the night which must have been just like in the old days before there was any border between India and Pakistan.

  Suffice it to say that no adventurous or unfortunate occurrence stood in our pathway that night, and the onions were transferred properly and we ourselves were transported back to Porbandar and to the train station just in time for the morning train back to Mumbai.

  Of course, my wife and Iqbal’s wife and even Netaji were waiting at the train station. My sweet wife was so happy to see me alive that if she was angry, all the anger was gone or too well hidden for even me to notice. Netaji gave Bhatkoo and Shamoo hugs, which was quite surprising I think to them.

  Iqbal and I had beforehand decided that there was no reason to take Netaji to task at the train station itself. We will let Bhatkoo and Shamoo give Netaji the details of the adventures, and we will simply go home with our wives and tell them of our heroism and of how our Gandhian spirit saved us from many imagined deaths.

  When we returned to our lane in this greatest city of Mumbai, the pao-bhaji-walla’s helper came running up to me and presented me with a free plate of special bhaji with extra bread that was double-buttered. I was surprised, and looked across at the pao-bhaji-walla. From that one look I could tell that he must have been the one who directed my wife to Netaji, and I laughed at myself for not realizing this earlier.

  After spending the full day and the next day also with no one but my sweet darling baby wife, I finally picked up the telephone and dialed for Iqbal, my brother in life.

  Should we go out for a walk, I asked him.

  Yes, he said, in fact I was about to call you for the same thing.

  And so we met out on the old familiar street and walked to the end of the lane. The street was the same, but since me and Iqbal were now different, everything in sum was also different. We greeted the pao-bhaji-walla, who had started giving me one free plate of special bhaji every day, and I ate my special bhaji and did some chit-chat about life and love and philosophy and what-not. By now it seemed like through the word of many mouths, the entire community of our lane knew of our adventures, and everyone was interested in our philosophies on life and marriage and all kinds of small things that are not really the business of Gandhians. But of course we cannot disappoint the people, and so we would give our viewpoints with great immediacy and extreme prejudice but also with reminders that Gandhian principles must pervade all of life’s pursuits.

  After one or two hours of answering questions and giving advices, we decided to walk outside our lane and perhaps go to the courtyard to see if Netaji and Bhatkoo and Shamoo were doing fine. It seemed like Netaji’s identity was still secret to the general public, and so we expected that all would be same at the courtyard of Netaji.

  But when we arrived, the courtyard was covered with dirt and paper and plastic bags and other such rubbish that is on every street of Mumbai but never in the clean courtyard of Netaji. This could only mean that Netaji has not been doing his sweeping duties, and this made us worried.

  Perhaps he ignored his sweeping due to many days of worry for us and for his servants, I told Iqbal.

  But Netaji has endured many years of worry and stress and what-not, said Iqbal, and the worry does not affect him as is evidenced by his smooth skin that has no wrinkles.

  That is true, I said.

  Let us go inside and see what is the problem, said Iqbal.

  We went to knock on the door, but when I knocked, the door pushed open and I could see that the lock had been broken. This created great worry for us, and we ran inside and shouted out for Netaji and Bhatkoo and Shamoo, but there was no answer whatsoever. Fearing the worst, we descended into the hydroponic underground, and when we arrived, we had to sit down due to shock.

  All the hydroponics had been destroyed. The glass tanks and tubes and lights and tables were all broken and shattered, and the few plants that remained were dead. Suddenly I felt so sad for the plants, and now I understood why Netaji said they are alive and can understand us. I could feel they had suffered, and it made me angry at the people that must have done it.

  Just then we heard a shout and a loud noise, and I turned just in time to move away from a stick that was addressed at my head. When I saw it was Bhatkoo doing the screaming and attempted hitting, I shouted at him and he immediately stopped.

  Bhatkoo was in a sorry state. He was dirty and smelled of sweat and it looked like he had not eaten for one or two days. His eyes were big and red, and I felt he had not come out into the sunlight for those one or two days at least.

  They took everything and everyone, he said with a mad look in his eyes.

  Who, I asked.

  Government, he said.

  What government, I asked as I thought about the Israelis and Americans and Pakistanis.

  Indian of course, said Iqbal.

  Yes, said Bhatkoo. Netaji had made the double deal for the weapons with some government official, and because of the failure of the weapons deal, that government official has fallen out of favor with his party and was threatened and so he gave up the name and location of Netaji and said that Netaji had double-dealed with him and should be faulted.

  So where is Netaji now, I asked.

  I do not know, said Bhatkoo, because I have been hiding underground since the raid.

  We must find him, I said.

  Of course, said Iqbal, no question.

  But how, said Bhatkoo, no one will know where he has been taken.

  There is one person who will know, I said as I lick
ed a remaining piece of salty spicy special bhaji from the outside of my mouth.

  39

  As predicted, the pao-bhaji-walla was able to help us. He did not personally know about the raid, but he had some contacts that he said would tell him anything under threat of being black-listed and not allowed to eat special bhaji from him. By noon the next day we had the required information, and in addition the pao-bhaji-walla put us in touch with the brother of a contact of one of his contacts, and this third-degree contact would let us into this secret government holding area where they hold people based on the feelings of politicians and not on the principles of law.

  The secret place was not far, but we had to take a bus there. I had taken Bhatkoo to my home and forced him to take bath and then my wife had fed him and given him clean kurta-pajama to wear, so he looked much better. And now that we would be going to at least talk to his master, he was in high spirits.

  We will fight to the death to free him, said Bhatkoo.

  There will be no fighting, I said.

  No, said Iqbal, we are only here to talk.

  Correct, I said, or else we will all get locked up and that will be the end of the matter.

  Bhatkoo understood and kept quiet, and soon our bus stop arrived and we jumped from the bus. The secret place was actually a single-storey square building in the middle of a very busy marketplace, and I thought it was very artistic of the government to place it right there in between the sellers of spinach and eggplant and papaya. That way if the prisoner shouts for help, no one will hear because all the vegetable-sellers are shouting all the time in order to sell vegetables.

  We gave the special agreed-upon coded knock on the door, and the door was opened quickly and we were brought in fast so that the door could be shut again. The inside of the place was very big and open, and there were no separate rooms or cells or anything like that. Immediately we saw Netaji sitting on a bench at the back of the room, and behind him were Shamoo and some of the other attendants and members of Netaji’s Hydroponic Institute for Foreign Policy.