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Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

Page 2

by Aabid Surti


  Sufi’s mother too was no less anxious. As usual, Hussain Ali had been drinking that day since morning. He had finished a bottle by the afternoon. He picked up another one just as Gul Banu got her labour pains.

  The cap on the bottle got jammed. While his wife was suffering the pangs of labour pain, Hussain Ali was trying hard to open the liquor bottle. Gul Banu’s pain had become so intense that she started screaming.

  Hussain Ali looked at her for a moment. He saw her balloon-shaped belly, saw her trying to breathe. He saw the bottle in his hand, held the bottle from its neck and smashed it on the wall. The neck remained in his hand. The bottle shattered to pieces. The liquor ran down the wall and spread on the floor.

  Sufi was born on 21st November 1949. Hussain Ali kicked his drinking habit from that day and vowed never to touch liquor again. He was determined to begin his life afresh.

  My father was not that fortunate. The 40th day of the ritual is said to be very crucial. On that night evil spirits go on a rampage and launch an all-out attack on the person trying to gain control over them. The attack is not on the body but on the mind.

  No man with a weak heart can withstand the ghastly scene created by the blood-curdling screams of headless bodies and wailing of toothless witches that swims before the eyes. My father’s heart was weaker than expected.

  Two screams were heard at the stroke of midnight. One was that of my mother. The other was my father, who lost his mental balance forever on that day. Thus fate gave me a mad father while Sufi got a loving one. Hussain Ali christened the child, Iqbal.

  Iqbal’s father not just kicked his addiction to liquor but also gave up his job under the clearing agent. The salary had not been substantial but there was ample scope for extra income. Besides, one could also carry on with smuggling. The only way to keep away from such temptations was to keep away from such a place. After all, if you step into the mud, you are bound to soil your feet. His decision was unshakable. What next? What would be the future?

  A similar dilemma faced Ibrahim Sheikh, the father of Bombay’s underworld don, Dawood. Like Hussain Ali, he too had collected over one lakh rupees. His resolve to start a new life too was unshakable.

  Ibrahim Sheikh was a reputed constable working with the crime branch of the Bombay police during the 1950s. Those were the years when Muslim officers gained a very good reputation for crime detection: Constable Khan (known widely by his buckle number 303) and another constable Israel too had gained quite a name.

  The very names of these three police constables sent shivers down the spines of goons, not just in Dongri but in all of Bombay city. Nonetheless, one day, a gang carried out a daring robbery in the impregnable Lloyd's Bank near the Fort market.

  Never in the annals of Bombay had such a well-planned and daring heist taken place. The morning newspapers carried the story in bold headlines on their front page, creating a sensation.

  The crime branch officer entrusted with this case chose Ibrahim Sheikh, Israel and Khan 303 as his assistants. The trio cracked this most difficult case within a week and nabbed the robbers.

  Ibrahim Sheikh now felt there was no need for him to continue in the job. He had saved over one lakh rupees during all his years in police service. Besides, discontent among the Muslim officers in the Bombay police force was clearly visible after the Partition.

  Hussain Ali resigned from his job at the dock. Ibrahim Sheikh too quit the police force. (He was not suspended as rumoured.) He bought a shop and opened a haircutting salon. Hussain Ali decided to start his own business.

  Speculative trading in cotton was at its peak in those years. People made lakhs from thousands and millionaires became billionaires overnight in this trade.

  “What’s the use of becoming a billionaire,” Gul Bano asked when she heard about her husband’s plans. “Is not one lakh rupees enough to live peacefully?”

  “No,” said Hussain Ali. “The money we have today may not be there tomorrow. I want my son to be educated. We need more money for his higher education. Will we not need large amounts of money to send our son abroad for higher studies?”

  If only someone had shown the negative side of speculative trading in cotton and told him that many billionaires had turned paupers overnight by indulging in Satta Bazaar, he would have probably invested his life-long savings into some other business.

  Ibrahim Sheikh too was not happy after investing his one lakh rupees in the haircutting salon. My family’s condition was the worst. We were living hand to mouth. My father was bed-ridden after a prolonged illness. He would lie down on his bed, day and night. He would not utter a word. He would just eat whatever my mother gave him. The entire responsibility of the family fell on my mother’s shoulders.

  There were six members in our family. The additional three members were my grandmother and two uncles. The elder one could not be bothered to work. The younger one, Mohammed Hussain, was too young to take up a job.

  My mother, who had come into the family as the daughter-in-law of a billionaire, had learned only one lesson from life – the art of survival. She sold off her last two gold bangles. It was necessary to find some work before this money too got exhausted. Laying aside her purdah, she started working as a maid for housewives in the neighbourhood.

  My younger uncle, Mohammed Hussain, could not stand this. He started hunting for a job at the tender age of sixteen. Finally, he got a job in the same very dock that was the hub of corruption.

  However, he soon earned himself a reputation of being an honest and just man. He also used to do social work. His fame as a one-man NGO (non-government/profit organisation) spread all around. However, financially, we remained where we were, in a single room in Sultan Mansion. Our prestige had increased, not the income. We had profited in one respect-- notorious underworld dons like Karim Lala, and police officials, used to look at Mohammed Hussain with respect.

  One evening, Ibrahim Sheikh came to our house. “Mohammedbhai,” he said, “I quit the police job and started a haircutting saloon thinking that with a fixed income I would be happily retired-- away from all the worries of life.”

  “Is it not doing well?”

  “I’m finding it difficult to even pay the salaries of the staff!”

  “You have a road-facing shop. Why not start some business?” My uncle advised him.

  He sat for a long time discussing new ideas. He was confused about what trade he should do. Karim Lala cleared his confusion in a flash. He took him under his wings. Ibrahim Sheikh became the link between the don and police officials. He would sort out Karim Lala’s problems with the police with ease. He knew the ‘price’ of everyone in the police station, from the constable’s to the inspector’s.

  Hussain Ali descended the staircase, from his room on the first floor of Abbasi Manzil. On his right was the Gardia School and on his left was the back of the Khoja Masjid. He was always on time for namaaz.

  Today was Friday. He would never miss the Friday - prayer. He was dressed in a white shirt and white pants. As he reached the Pala Galli after crossing the Munda Galli, he saw his old employer.

  “Hussain! If you want, you can rejoin the dock. I’ll be happy to take you back,” his ex-boss said, even before Hussain Ali could speak a word.

  Hussain Ali looked at him steadily. He was certain about one thing: that his ex-boss had seen his poverty. He did not reply. His ex-boss too did not feel like insisting any further. For an intelligent person, just a hint is enough to size up the truth.

  A hurricane was blowing across Hussain Ali’s mind. The road to making a fast buck lay before him. He could once again become a millionaire.

  With each prayer during namaaz, he was discarding all kinds of ideas that were disturbing him. As he raised his hands seeking the blessings of the God Almighty, the following words rang in his ears:

  “The Merciful tests his devotees from time to time, whether he is a commoner or an emperor, a devotee or an imam. Only he can proudly claim to be a true follower of the Merciful who su
ccessfully passes the test.”

  These words coming from the pesh-imam in his address to the congregation made the mentally disturbed Hussain Ali stand still. He decided to take up a job, not in the dock but in a department store.

  During namaaz, he learnt about a vacancy in the ‘Link Bazaar’ store in Bandra- a suburb of Bombay. He met the owner the next day and secured the job at a monthly salary of three hundred rupees. Three hundred rupees in the sixties was equivalent to today’s (1990) three thousand rupees.

  That decade was the golden period of gold smuggling. Thanks to the ‘Gold Control Act’ piloted by finance minister Morarji Desai, the value of gold had sky rocketed. The rate of gold in India was four times the international price. A gold famine raged in India.

  According to the Bombay Bullion Association, there were ten thousand licensed gold merchants and two and a half lakh certified jewelers in India. Together they dealt in one hundred tons of gold worth Rs. 2000 crore* every year. Of this, fifty per cent of gold came from melting old jewelry while the gold mines owned by the government accounted for just 2.5 tons issued for industrial use only.

  The dealers had no option but to have a pact with smugglers to meet the market’s demand. Haji Mastan grabbed the opportunity. In fact, the Gujarati and Marwari traders used him for smuggling gold. The arrangement worked very well.

  The golden period of gold smuggling had begun. The unemployed youth from Dongri came forward to join Haji Mastan’s gang. Hussain Ali stuck to his job.

  His mathematical calculations proved correct. He needed a hundred rupees to run the house. His salary was three hundred. He would keep aside the remaining two hundred rupees for Iqbal’s (the little boy Sufi) future. Still, he had a feeling that somewhere something was wrong. His sixth sense told him that Allah had calculated differently.

  Is not the testing time over for me yet? As this question flashed through him, three boys from his lane stood at his door. The boy in the middle had a bleeding nose.

  “What happened?” Hussain Ali asked in amazement.

  “Iqbal battered him.”

  *1 crore=10 million

  He was surprised. The boy, Ali, with the broken nose and blood stained shirt, was seven-years-old. Iqbal was not yet five.

  “Where has that bastard gone?”

  “He has run away,” the others replied.

  “Papa, I didn’t run away. These three cowards came running to you to complain,” a voice echoed from behind the boys.

  “Come in front!”

  Iqbal shoved aside the three boys and came forward. “You had gone out to play or to fight? Speak up,” Hussain Ali caught his wrist and slapped him.

  He did not waver and replied boldly, “I was playing with my top- alone. The three of them challenged me. My top cracked Ali’s from the middle and all of them pounced on me.”

  “Is that why you broke his nose? Come, apologize to Ali,” he delivered another slap to Iqbal.

  “No,” he screamed, tenaciously holding his ground.

  Hussain Ali thrashed him in front of the three boys.

  “That wasn’t fair.” Gul Banu, his wife, told him at night expressing her displeasure.

  “I was aware that our son was not at fault. But I don’t want him to resort to violence to sort out his problems,” he declared.

  Gul Banu could not remain quiet. “What will you do if three persons attack you? Our son is not Mahatma Gandhi. The locality we live in doesn’t believe in non-violence. Here people have to fight for their survival. Only the fittest can survive in this society. Do you want to teach our son lessons of cowardice?”

  His wife had a point but it was difficult for Hussain Ali to accept it. He had the future of Iqbal before him. He saw him as a member of the educated and cultured elite. No gentleman ever bloodies someone’s face.

  If I do not discipline him at this tender age, when he grows up he may start cracking heads with a staff or even using a dagger, he thought, looking at Iqbal who was sleeping on the floor.

  “I won’t pardon you…I won’t spare you…wham, wham”, Iqbal was muttering. He had decided to take revenge on the three boys who had had him punished unfairly. His sub-conscious was screaming out for retaliation.

  My mind too was reverberating with similar thoughts at that age. However, unlike Iqbal, I had neither the strength nor the courage to seek reprisal.

  Chapter 2

  Two unreasonable terrors plagued my mother. One was water and the other, fitness exercises. She believed that physical exercise could lead to broken bones while swimming could lead to drowning. “You will go just like that.” She would say snapping her fingers.

  I could never even guess why she feared these two innocent sports. But one thing was certain: The more my mother tried to keep me from the sea, the more I was lured by it.

  One early morning, when I was seven, I went to Chowpatty beach with my neighbourhood friends. We stripped and plunged into the water.

  While my friends got out after about an hour, I remained in the sea for a while. It is fun to welcome the crashing waves with open arms. How could I give up the pleasure of diving into the deep?

  At last, as I swam back to the shore and put my feet on the beach, all hell broke loose. My friends had vanished, taking my shirt and pants with them.

  My embarrassment knew no bounds. How was I to reach Dongri without any clothes? Even if I managed to reach home somehow, how would I face my mother? I was about to break down when a newspaper sheet came rolling up to my feet. Eyes sparkling, I lifted it and wrapped it around my waist.

  At least one problem was solved. I could now reach home with dignity under the wraps of the newspaper. Holding it with both my hands and stepping gently on the sand, I headed for home. However, I could not go very far….

  As I neared Opera House, a street dog started barking after me. The newspaper ‘cover’ slipped off. I took to my heels. Chased by the dog, I reached Dongri in record time. My friends were waiting for me at the Char Nal crossing. Seeing me stark naked, they burst out in a peel of laughter. They were teasing me by dangling my clothes before me, like carrots. I could not stand the torture any more and started wailing. “Why…but why, was I being singled out for ridicule?” Pitying me, they threw my shorts and shirt on my face and walked away. I seethed with anger.

  Iqbal’s mischievous acts were increasing day by day. He could not sit quietly in school. He had not yet taken his revenge on Ali and his two buddies. The trio used to study with him in the Habib High School. Iqbal was thinking of ways to strike at them. And –

  One day, during recess, he got his opportunity. Ali had snatched the pencil of one of Iqbal’s classmates. Iqbal leapt up and confronted the trio.

  “Give back the pencil.”

  “It’s not yours,” Ali retorted.

  Iqbal warned him. Boys playing nearby formed a circle. It was a matter of prestige for the trio. If they returned the pencil fearing the puny Iqbal, the children would stop fearing them. They decided to fight it out.

  Iqbal attacked first. A teacher, who was passing by, witnessed the assault. Before Iqbal could teach the boys a lesson, blows from the teacher’s cane started raining on his back. He was stunned. He left the trio and looked back. The geography teacher with the face of the globe was standing before him.

  The complaint about Iqbal reached home much before he returned from school in the evening. However, Hussain Ali did not even look at him. He was surprised. Why is Papa not saying anything? Why is he lying quietly on the bed?

  As he found himself trapped in a web of such questions, Gul Banu entered with Dr. Khimani. Iqbal stood in a corner. “There is nothing to worry about,” said the doctor after examining Hussain Ali. “I’ll take the child with me to my clinic for the medicine.”

  After a week, Dr. Khimani firmly told Gul Banu: “Sister, your husband was already suffering from diabetes and rheumatism. Now he has a heart problem too. You will have to be careful with his diet. No salt, chilly, condiments and oily products.” Pre
scribing a list of additional medicines, he warned: “If you don’t follow my instructions, his condition will deteriorate further.”

  Iqbal was too small to understand what heart problem meant. Nevertheless, he could read a lot in the clouds of worry floating in his mother’s eyes. He understood the seriousness of the disease. This made an impression on his tender mind.

  Though he was not in a position to help his father, at least he could be careful not to hurt his feelings. It was his bounden duty now to ensure that none of his actions tormented his father.

  There was a sudden drop in his naughtiness. Hussain Ali had been bedridden for the past one month, but he was silently observing his son’s every move. The change in Iqbal’s behaviour did not remain hidden from him.

  Since the past several months, he had given up hope that his son would ever be a graduate. His hopes were now rekindled and he decided to go back to his job, starting next month.

  Hussain Ali used to stay in Dongri’s Munda Galli and his job was in Bandra’s Link Bazaar. He had to walk up to the Sandhurst Road station from his residence, catch a suburban train to Bandra, and then walk for about ten minutes to reach his place of work.

 

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