Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  Chapter 3

  Hussain Ali glanced at Ali and focused his eyes on the stranger accompanying him. What caught his attention most was his oval face with short hair, scrubby beard and big eyes. The nose was flat. A gold tooth was conspicuously visible behind his lips. (Two gold teeth sparkled whenever Haji Mastan laughed.) He wore a faded green, short-sleeved long Pathani shirt and striped red lungi.

  Hussain Ali was familiar with the name Moghul, but not with the face. He presumed that the person accompanying Ali might be his father or someone related to him. “Come in,” he said welcoming the two and sitting up on the bed. His wife stopped massaging his feet and got up.

  Moghul looked at Iqbal helping his two brothers with their homework, pulled up a chair and sat opposite Hussain Ali. Ali stood behind him. Gul Banu busied herself lighting a Primus stove in the corner of the same room used as a kitchenette.

  “I came to see Iqbal,” Moghul began. “I’d not met him for the last several days, so...”

  “You?”

  “He’s an industrious boy.” Moghul interrupted. His look was focused on Iqbal but he addressed the father. “He was earning about fifty rupees a day when he suddenly disappeared. I thought some mishap might have happened. When I inquired, Ali told me that he is quite hale and hearty. I couldn’t believe...”

  An introduction was no longer necessary. Hussain Ali realized that the person sitting before him in the long, faded green shirt was Moghul. The filth from which he had extricated his son before he could slip further had, today, entered his very own house. That same evil had arrived under his roof. In this world, sin is more attractive than righteousness.

  Hussain Ali suddenly found himself in an awkward situation. The unpleasant sound coming from the stove as Gul Banu tried to light it was clearly audible in the silence of the room. Gul Banu put the kettle on the stove and threw a sidelong glance at her husband. Hussain Ali had to take a decision.

  “Sufi! Then what did your father decide?” I asked him when I found him suddenly quiet and looking up at the sky.

  “In fact, he was not in a position to take a decision.” He replied looking at me.

  I was startled. “But he was the head of the family.”

  “True. However, he did not reply either in the affirmative or…”

  “But why?”

  “A person anticipating death within twenty-four hours rises above all sorrow and happiness.”

  I simply stared at Sufi's face.

  “How did you know that your father was going to die soon?”

  “He himself told us after Moghul left.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That his time was up. I didn’t understand anything. After all, what was my age at that time?” Iqbal asked.

  It was 1966. Sufi was in the tenth standard and completely immersed in his studies.

  Like Hussain Ali, my father, Ghulam Hussain, too had announced his end beforehand. And not with a vague statement like “My time is up”, but a calm yet explicit warning, “No one should leave the house tomorrow; else you won't ever see my face.”

  That was Tuesday. He had also said that if he did not die on Wednesday, then he would surely leave this world on Friday.

  Man has not yet understood life and its mysteries, let alone death. Who would have whispered into the ears of our fathers that their days were numbered? Who would have cautioned them to be prepared for their final journey? I think our fathers knew the awe and nobility of death. Death to them, however savage, was a royal game of chess in which they were to emerge honourable losers.

  We were all astonished by the way my father had coolly announced his death. We did not believe him because his illness was no ordinary malaise.

  According to the doctors, not even his nails had an affliction. The doctors were also not willing to believe that some evil spirit had possessed him. In their view, he was the victim of neurosis. However, none of the healers could come to a definite conclusion about the nature of the mental disorder and its root cause. We all knew that some evil spirit had overpowered my father while he was trying to command them through the ritual that had lasted forty days.

  He would quietly lie on his cot day and night. At times, one could hear his mumblings. His hands would make some movement as if he were talking to an invisible person. Then all of a sudden he would be quiet and stare silently at the wall across.

  It was because of his mental state that when he announced the precise date of his death in full consciousness, we thought it to be an illusion and dismissed whatever he said as the ramblings of a psychic patient.

  My mother, grandmother and my uncle Mohammed Hussain huddled together to discuss the situation. They agreed on one point – there was no harm in being alert for a day.

  The next day, my father had a seizure before noon. No one could tell if it was a cardiac arrest or a brief fit. He was writhing in pain. My mother, who was baking chapattis on the stove, rushed to his side, while my uncle and grandmother rushed to his other side. In short, the entire family converged.

  The storm came and was gone before we could comprehend anything. My father got up from the bed and looking into each of our faces, he said, “Go, get moving, nothing is going to happen to me till Friday.”

  My father had had a stroke. We were now hundred per cent sure that Friday was to be his final day and doomsday it proved to be. He left his earthly body in the presence of all the members of his family. I was consumed with grief. There is always a sorrow when people leave us physically, although we know that his soul is alive somewhere.

  Sufi believes “There cannot be any deviation from what the Creator of both the worlds has written”. One astrologer, who had seen his hand, had predicted his future.

  “I’ll roll in millions, yet I’ll remain a pauper,” Sufi repeated the prediction. “I’ll become a billionaire and yet live like a sanyasi. I’ll try to tread on the right path and yet my feet will slip away towards crime. This month, I’ve completed the fortieth year of my life. God is a witness to how much I’ve struggled in these four decades to live a just and honest life.”

  “For example?”

  In 1980, he had taken to the poultry business. When he failed, he tried his hand at the wholesale trade of prawns. In this too, there were many complications. Recently, he has taken up a new occupation– he buys old cars, repairs and sells them.

  I cannot fathom much of what Sufi says. For instance, he asserts that the future of all men is predestined. In other words, a man is feeble and helpless. He cannot act as he likes. Then, what is the use of predictions?

  I asked him, “Suppose it’s predestined that I’ll meet with a car accident on a particular day at a particular time – If I know this, why would I venture out of home?”

  “If a car accident is destined, there will be a compelling situation that will make you leave the house.”

  He gave his father’s example. The date of Hussain Ali's exit from life was fixed. He had come to know the exact date of his death.

  “How?”

  “From his horoscope.”

  “Had he got his horoscope made?”

  “Oh, no! Accidentally he had come across an astrologer who had prepared a rough horoscope based on lines carved on the palm of his right hand. As per the reading, he was to get married at the age of thirty-five. That’s exactly what happened. Among other such correct predictions, one was about his death.”

  Hussain Ali was in fine health as the day of his departure arrived. He had vaguely forewarned his wife the previous day, but the next day he told her in his full senses to forgive him for whatever wrong he had done to her knowingly or unknowingly. The archangel of death was hovering over his head.

  Iqbal was preparing to leave for school when he heard his father utter these words to his mother. . He instantly froze.

  Gul Banu admonished her husband, “Why are you speaking like this today?”

  “My call has come.”

  The eyes of the mother and son filled with tears. I
qbal put his textbooks back in the drawer. There was no need to go to school today.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Hussain Ali told him, “Your being here will not send Death away. Now go, there isn’t much time left for your terminal examinations.”

  Father and son argued for a couple of minutes. Finally, before leaving for school with his two younger brothers, Iqbal told his mother, “Please, don't let papa go out today.”

  Hussain Ali remained at home, reciting couplets from the Holy Quran. After lunch he told his wife, “I’m going for a walk, just up to the street corner and shall be back in about five minutes.”

  Gul Banu thought - What difference would five minutes make? Hussain Ali left the Abbasi Manzil and came to Pala Galli. For a while, he stood watching the mosque and its minaret. This was the same Khoja Masjid where he had offered prayers for years together, sought God’s blessings, listened to the sermons of the Pesh Imam and attended congregations. This mosque was an abode of the God and a part of his life too.

  From here, he loitered up to the corner of Pala Galli and proceeded towards the JJ Hospital, as if he had to meet death at an appointed time and place.

  The situation brings back to mind an Iranian parable. A Sheikh saw Death approaching him from a distance and escaped from the back door of his villa. He ran madly for hours. When he felt assured that he had managed to escape death, he entered a serai to spend the night. As he stepped into the room, he saw Death sitting on a chair. Death told him, “Brother Sheikh, you may be surprised to see me here, but I am not. Actually, I had come to your villa to inform you that you will be breathing your last in this very room of the serai at this time.”

  Hussain Ali's death was written near gate number 12 of JJ Hospital. The postmortem report revealed that he had died of cardiac failure.

  “The benefit of knowing the future is…” Sufi summed up, “to prepare man for good as well as evil omens. If the exact date of death is known, one can brace oneself to welcome it.”

  If the situation at home was bad earlier, Hussain Ali’s death shattered it completely. Hunger and sorrow besieged the family. Sorrow can still be fought, but what about hunger?

  What about his two younger brothers? What about my studies? Who will pay the house rent, grocer's bill and, the school fees? Iqbal was devastated.

  Hussain Ali's last wish had been to see his son complete his graduation and settle down in life as a respectable citizen. There was not a single straight road before Iqbal that could have fulfilled this wish. So he chose the crooked one. Leaving Munda Galli, his feet proceeded towards Moghul Masjid. This was where Moghul lived.

  He did not need to enter Moghul’s room. Moghul was chatting with a Sardarji outside his building, at a tea stall. Iqbal stood before him. “Uncle, can I get work?” he asked softly.

  Moghul waved his hand as if to wave aside a fly.

  Iqbal was about to open his mouth again when Moghul stopped him saying, “I had come to your house when I needed you. Now there is no work.”

  The Sardarji sitting beside Moghul was silently listening to the conversation.

  Iqbal pleaded, “Uncle, my father is dead.”

  “So, what do I do?” he snapped. “Open an orphanage for destitutes like you? Get lost. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Iqbal stood there quietly for some time and left when he saw no signs of hope.

  “Who was that boy?” asked the Sardarji, who had remained silent all this time.

  “Why? Do you need him?” Moghul looked at Sardarji.

  “Does he have any experience in our line of work?”

  “Yes,” said Moghul, adding, “He is also a hardworking boy.”

  “Even a donkey works hard. He must also have a brain.”

  “He is bright and honest too.”

  “Call him back.”

  Moghul turned to look for Iqbal but he was nowhere in sight. However, he guessed that Iqbal could not have gone far. He sent a boy working at the tea stall to fetch him.

  When Iqbal faced Moghul again, his face glowed with renewed hope

  “Do you know this gentleman?” Moghul asked, pointing towards the Sardarji.

  Glancing at him, Iqbal shook his head in the negative.

  “He is Jasbir Singh.”

  Iqbal looked at him again. The Sardarji looked like a truck driver to him. This time, the Sardarji asked, “Will you work for me?”

  Before giving him a definite reply, Iqbal asked him a counter question, “What’s the work?”

  “Storing.”

  “I don't have space.”

  “Don't you have a house?”

  “Yes. But it’s tiny. What has to be stored?”

  “Liquor bottles.”

  A shiver ran down Iqbal’s spine. “No, no, it’s not possible.”

  “Why?”

  “If the neighbours see the bottles and inform the police, I’ll be in a fix.”

  Jasbir Singh started laughing. His white teeth sparkled through his black beard and moustache. He clarified, “The bottles will not be visible.”

  “Then?”

  “They will be concealed in sacks.” Feeling the need to clarify further, he went on “Just like the sacks in which grain is stored.”

  Finally, everything was settled. He would be paid five rupees per sack. Arrangements would have to be made to store about fifty to sixty sacks in the house. The entire stock would be disposed off by Jasbir Singh in two to three days and replaced with a new stock. This meant, he would get at least two to three thousand rupees a month. However, the moot question was where to keep the sacks in such a small room.

  On reaching home, Iqbal inspected the area from the point of view of a new tenant. A wooden bed occupied almost half the room. Besides a little space in the centre, there was a cupboard, two chairs and a small writing table. There was the kitchenette, the cooking area in a corner. “What are you looking for?” Gul Banu could not resist asking him when she saw Iqbal inspecting each article kept in the room.

  “A way,” replied Iqbal without looking at her.

  Gul Banu laughed. “Have you gone crazy? A roadway is always outside, not inside the room,” she said.

  He explained: He was looking for a way to store about fifty sacks so that one could earn two thousand rupees a month. Gul Banu's face lit up. She too started thinking along with her son. Can we not create space by selling the cupboard? What about disposing the chairs? The bed can be shifted from the window to the right near the wall...

  At last, Iqbal found a solution.: The bed must be dismantled. He got into action immediately. First, he removed all the planks of the bed and stacked them on one side. Then, he loosened the joints of all the four legs with the help of a spanner. He disjoined every part of the bed one by one. He kept all these parts near the planks. After the bed was dismantled completely, the small room suddenly became a spacious hall.

  How and from where were these sacks coming?

  With Independence in 1947 came prohibition. Simultaneously there was a heavy customs duty imposed on foreign goods such as textiles, transistor radios, cigarettes etc. What was the result? The seeds of smuggling sprouted. In the fifties, the sapling turned into a small plant. By the sixties, the small plant turned into a lush green tree.

  The shortest route to smuggling foreign liquor was from Goa to Bombay. For the poor and the working class, breweries of cheap country liquor sprouted in residential areas. Sion-Koliwada was the nerve-centre of this flourishing trade. Ramaswamy was its don.

  Just as Karim Lala and Haji Mastan ruled over Dongri, the writ of Ramaswamy ran over Sion-Koliwada. When Varadarajan Mudaliyar challenged his supremacy, Ramaswamy’s empire collapsed like a pack of cards.

  Who was Varadarajan Mudaliyar, also known as Vardabhai? He too had started his career from the docks. He was born in Kalyan near Bombay on the 9th of October, 1925. His father was a fitter in the railways. His monthly salary was twelve rupees and eighteen paisa.

  Varda and Mastan led very parallel lives. Mastan had l
eft his studies mid-way due to poverty. Varda had left the Koliwada municipal school for similar reasons. Mastan had started working in a tea stall. Varda had joined a garage. Thereafter, both came to the docks. Both first took up work as painters on a ship. Both grew up and became coolies. And then they met. Varda took advantage of this acquaintance. Mastan had already started bootlegging working as a coolie. There were over 15 boys working under him. He enjoyed the patronage of influential people of the metropolis.

  With his blessing, Varda attacked Ramaswamy. This attack was as well planned as an army assault on the enemy. Ramaswamy's liquor breweries were demolished and his gambling dens were destroyed along with the furniture and everything else. Those of his men who tried to resist were beaten black and blue. The rest surrendered their weapons at Varda's feet.

  Ramaswamy was stunned. He lost his empire before he could understand what befell him. He lost his multi-million rupee monthly income. His writ no more ran supreme. Within 24 hours, he along with his whole family fled Bombay by air for Madras.

  Varadarajan Mudaliyar was crowned as Vardabhai of Sion-Koliwada. He started his own liquor breweries. He opened 15 bars where people could drink to their heart's content twenty-four hours a day.