Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  “I’ve visited that liquor den once. There isn’t enough space to dump even ten sacks, let alone fifty.”

  The next day, a vigil was kept again at all the three entry points. Bhesadia did not want to take action before full confirmation. Moreover, more than seizing the liquor stock, he was interested in ambushing the real culprit. This required patience. Inspector Bhesadia had lots of it.

  Chapter 5

  The plainclothes police spent two nights, waiting, watching and yawning. On the third night, their vigil paid off. The truck carrying the consignment entered Palkhi Mohalla again. It was the same time, midnight. The same entrance, the corner of Munda Galli and the same routine.

  Iqbal was perplexed. The reason for his worry was the fact that the liquor stock brought in two days earlier had not yet been cleared. The fifty sacks were still lying untouched. Meanwhile another fifty had arrived. He entered the dark lane. He stopped the boys carrying the sacks from entering the building and went to Chandu.

  Sporting the physique of a wrestler, broad-shouldered Chandu was Aziz Dilip's right-hand man. He was in-charge of the liquor joint at Munda Galli. Iqbal had met him through Moghul. (Those days Iqbal used to work for Moghul as a delivery boy, ferrying liquor bottles.) He had become Iqbal's friend.

  “Yaar Chandu!” Iqbal pleaded, “The new consignment has arrived. If I stock this too, we will be forced to sleep in the corridor.”

  “How big is the lot?”

  “Fifty sacks.”

  “Of what?”

  “Ten of fenny...”

  “I need fenny right here. I’ll keep them,” Chandu said, interrupting him.

  “The remaining sacks contain bottles of scotch, rum and vodka,” Iqbal finished.

  “I’ll send them to the Bhimpura joint. Tell Jasbir Singh to come after two days to settle the accounts. Anything else?”

  That solved the problem. He gave fresh instructions to the boys standing in queue near Abbasi Manzil with sacks on their back: “Dump the cross-marked sacks at the liquor joint. Load the remaining sacks on the handcart parked outside.”

  The boys resumed work. Once again, they started unloading sacks from the truck and once again the cops faced the same old problem. Should they enter the lane or not? If they failed to enter, this time too they would go back without any result.

  At last, one of them mustered courage to enter the lane. He sneaked in like a shadow, taking cover of the darkness, and stopped at a safe distance from the joint, from where he could see clearly what was going on. At that time, ten sacks containing fenny were being dumped inside. There was no point in staying put there any longer; there was no need either. He returned safely.

  Inspector Bhesadia was stumped. One of the three cops standing before him had asserted confidently: “Sir, this time I saw with my own eyes. The Malbari boys were carrying the sacks and Chandu was directing them to pile the sacks inside the joint.”

  Inspector Bhesadia was compelled to think seriously about this matter. After meditating for a while, he concluded that if what he had heard was true then there must be a cellar somewhere underneath the joint to store bottles. He decided to raid the place. Two days later, he left his Liberty House residence in his jeep just before two o’clock in the morning. (It takes a maximum of ten minutes from there to reach Dongri by a vehicle.)

  Almost at the same time, the truck stopped at the corner of Munda Galli. The boys were standing there, ready. The truck driver jumped from his seat, came to the back and then climbed back into the truck.

  Iqbal was upset. His tenth standard examinations had started. To add to his predicament, the truck that used to come twice a week had started coming every alternate day. There was concern about his studies on one hand and taking care of a flourishing trade on the other.

  Inspector Bhesadia's jeep turned right at Metro Cinema and reached the crime branch headquarters at Boribunder in a minute. All the three cops, who were waiting at the main gate, boarded the jeep as soon as it stopped. One sat besides Bhesadia in the front while the remaining two sat at the back. The jeep started again.

  Here at the entrance of Munda Galli, the unloading of the truck had begun. The driver aboard the truck was pulling the sacks one after another and handing them over to the boys standing below. The Malbari boys were carrying the sacks on their back and disappearing into the dark lane like mice.

  The sacks were being stacked inside Iqbal's room. Normally it takes two hours to empty the truck and hardly five minutes had gone by so far.

  The jeep had crossed Crawford Market and reached Mohammed Ali road when suddenly there was an explosion in the dead of the night. Inspector Bhesadia, together with all the three cops, jumped out of the jeep. They saw that the rear wheel of the jeep had punctured. One of the cops ran in search of a mechanic.

  Almost an hour had elapsed. The truck had been half emptied and the other half was yet to be unloaded.

  The cops returned without success. It was difficult to find a mechanic at this hour of the night. They could not afford to wait until morning. Finally, Bhesadia decided to do the job himself. He rolled up his sleeves, took out the spare wheel kept in the rear of the jeep, used a jack and began changing the wheel.

  In reality, it takes hardly five to seven minutes to reach Munda Galli from Mohammed Ali road on foot. Instead, they wasted two hours searching for a mechanic and changing the wheel.

  By the time the jeep entered Palkhi Mohalla, the truck was leaving. “Sir,” one of the cops pointed excitedly, “The truck...”

  Inspector Bhesadia had no interest in the truck now. On reaching the entrance of Munda Galli, he parked the jeep by the side and came to Aziz Dilip's joint, accompanied by the three plainclothes cops. By now, all the drunkards had left the place. The den was almost empty.

  A lad was busy cleaning the glasses and plates, dipping them into a tub filled with water. Chandu was tallying the day’s collection, his fingers deftly counting the notes.

  On seeing Bhesadia pop up before him, he was stupefied. The ribs of his broad wrestler-like chest started rattling. One cop had positioned himself outside the entry point. The other two were searching the premises.

  “Please be seated, Sir!” he said, recovering from the initial shock and stuffing the notes into the table drawer. “What will you have? Whiskey, rum, brandy, fenny? The stock has arrived just today.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough for our requirement.”

  “How much?”

  “You can see for yourself,” Chandu said pointing towards the fenny bottles. “There isn’t enough space to keep more than a dozen crates.”

  “Where’s the rest of the stock?”

  “What stock, Sir?” he said, expressing surprise.

  Inspector Bhesadia shoved the table to one side and caught him by his neck. “Tell me, where have you dumped the truck full of stock brought a few minutes ago?”

  Now Chandu grasped the situation. Surely, someone had informed the cops about Iqbal. The cops must have kept a watch and come to the conclusion that the stock belonged to the joint and not to Iqbal. He regained his confidence because he was not guilty.

  “Sir, I swear we never receive more than a few crates.”

  “You won't open your mouth without...” Inspector Bhesadia raised his hand to hit him.

  “Sir,” a cop, who was searching the premises, interjected, “There is a sword and a dagger here.”

  “Listen, man!” Bhesadia lowered his hand, “Now you’ve compounded the crime. If you don't tell me the truth, you’ll be behind bars for a whole year.”

  “Sir, I’ve told you the truth. I don't know anything.”

  All of a sudden, he slapped Chandu hard. This did not affect Chandu at all. Given his athletic physique, even a few blows would feel like a shower of flowers.

  After hitting him left and right several times, Bhesadia realized that the giant standing before him would not utter a word so easily. He would have to be taken to the lock-up and given a sound thrashing.


  Chandu was handcuffed. One of the cops grabbed the hair of the boy who was shivering near the pile of glasses and plates. Before leaving the joint, a thought occurred to Bhesadia: In the maze of Munda Galli, there were two buildings and a few sewers. One building was the Gardia School and the other one was Abbasi Manzil. There was no harm in looking these up.

  He locked up Chandu and the boy for the time being.

  The night was almost over. The muezzin was calling the believers for namaaz at the nearby Khoja Masjid. His voice was sounding sweet in the soft twilight of the dawn. Devout Muslims, sleeping soundly, woke up rubbing their eyes. Iqbal also got up.

  He had studied late into the night and then had the sacks unloaded in his room from two in the night to four in the morning. He had hardly slept for an hour. This was the time he got up every day.

  He cleaned his teeth with salt, gargled and went down to offer namaaz. He saw that two plainclothes-cops and an inspector were searching for something in an open sewer. He was startled. It did not take him much time to guess what they were looking for.

  Iqbal's first reaction was to run back; but the time of namaaz would elapse, which was not agreeable to him. From Munda Galli he came to Pala Galli and entered the mosque. He washed his hands, face and feet and sat with the devotees to offer namaaz. He returned after ten minutes.

  By this time, Bhesadia and the two cops had completed their inspection of the sewers and entered Abbasi Manzil. (The third cop was standing guard outside the liquor den.) Every room of the ground floor was being searched now. A crowd had gathered around the entrance of the chawl.

  Iqbal forced his way through the crowd and reached the first floor. One thing was certain: The sacks kept in the room had to be disposed off as soon as possible. However, where to dump the sacks? If the sacks were thrown from the window down into the gutter, there would be a big thump. There was no time for emptying the bottles into the drain. Every sack had three dozen bottles. It would take at least a few hours to empty nearly two thousand bottles.

  The cops were to climb up after finishing the search of the houses on the ground floor. Iqbal's room was on the first floor. If the smuggled liquor was found in his room, not just him but Gul Banu too would be arrested and he wanted to protect his mother.

  Finally, he said, “Maa, you leave immediately. Leave this house.”

  Unaware of the police raid, she asked, “Why?”

  Iqbal explained the situation in brief and said, “Please hurry up! By now, the search of the ground floor houses must be over and the cops will be arriving upstairs soon.”

  Gul Banu looked at him closely. The cops were searching the last two rooms on the ground floor. The commotion from there was becoming clearer now. Woken from their sleep, people were cursing the police.

  “Maa! There is no time to think now.” Iqbal became desperate.

  Gul Banu sat still by the dismantled wooden bed. Then asked him coolly, “Can you see these black clothes?” Gul Banu had started wearing black after her husband's death. Black long frock and black dupatta.

  “Tomorrow is your papa's fortieth day.” She clarified on seeing confusion on Iqbal's face. “I can’t step out of the house till then.”

  Iqbal shuddered, “But, maa...”

  Before he could say anything more, Gul Banu proclaimed, “I won’t budge from here even if that means my being handcuffed.”

  Inspector Bhesadia and his men arrived on the first floor and started banging at the doors of the rooms near the staircase. As soon as the doors were opened they both dashed in.

  The third room was Iqbal’s. He had locked it from inside and was sitting with his two younger brothers by his side. His breathing had stopped. He was looking at his mother sitting beside the wooden bed, praying fervently, rosary in hand and then looking at the door. Such a thing had never happened before. He had never encountered the police. Fear was steadily growing on his face.

  After searching the two rooms near the staircase, the cops proceeded further. One of them was about to knock on Iqbal's door when Bhesadia stopped him.

  “Why, Sir?” the cop asked in surprise.

  “Can you see this black curtain?”

  He glanced at the curtain over the door and then looked back at Bhesadia.

  “Do you know what it means?” After a brief pause he continued, “Someone has expired in this house. The family is in mourning for forty days. We should maintain the sanctity of the bereaved family.”

  Iqbal heard these words behind the closed door and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was miraculously saved. He looked at his mother. She was still praying feverishly sitting beside the dismantled wooden bed.

  Before leaving, Inspector Bhesadia took along the boy working in the liquor den with Chandu. Now he started mounting pressure on both, especially on the boy.

  “Understand sonny,” Bhesadia said playing with the paperweight on his table, “At least ten people will come forward to get Chandu released on bail but no one will come to your aid. If you tell the truth I’ll release you right now.”

  The boy silently looked at him.

  “Tell me, a truck full of sacks comes after midnight. Where do those sacks go?”

  The boy was still silent. Inspector Bhesadia got up, thrust himself in front of him, pulled his ear and repeated the question in a menacing tone: “Open your mouth or I will open it for you.” He raised his eyebrows and was on to him harrying, pinning him down, and nosing out the truth. Now he pulled the boy’s hair. The boy's face lifted up and he saw two ferocious eyeballs as his nose touched another nose. He got shit scared and the next moment the name of Iqbal was on his lips.

  Inspector Bhesadia was baffled. He could not believe that a high school student studying in the tenth standard would be immersed in the murky business of bootlegging. He called Chandu to his cabin and started questioning afresh. “Who’s Iqbal?” Chandu was taken aback. The secret he wanted to hide and for which he had received a thrashing in the lockup had come out. Still, he wanted to size up the situation. “Iqbal! Who, Sir?”

  Suddenly, Bhesadia picked up the paperweight and threw it at him. Chandu ducked and the paperweight hit his left shoulder. He screamed in pain. The paperweight fell down. The next moment he clasped his shoulder with his right hand, as if placing the hand would relieve the pain in his throbbing shoulder.

  For about an hour, Bhesadia fired him, threatened him and thrashed him but he did not open his mouth. At last, the lad was released and through him, Bhesadia sent a message to Aziz Dilip.

  When Iqbal emerged from the school gate at Bhimpura at five in the evening after appearing for his Geography examination, he saw Aziz Dilip waiting for him, hands on hips.

  “Yaar!” He looked cynical but spoke with child-like sincerity, “You will have to meet Bhesadia.”

  Iqbal thought for a few seconds and then replied, “My examinations are on…”

  “If you won't go, Chandu won’t be released,” he said again. “Bhesadia has sent stern warning. I sent my man twice for bail. And twice Bhesadia showed him the door.”

  Revealing his fear, Iqbal asked, “He…he won’t do anything to me?”

  “No way,” he assured.

  Next day, the examination was in the morning and there was no class in the afternoon. After school, Iqbal walked to Boribunder. His heart skipped a beat on seeing the compound of the crime branch headquarters.

  Recovering his composure, he asked for directions and finally made it to Bhesadia's cabin. He saw Bhesadia's nameplate on the door. He pushed the door slowly and peeped into the tiger's den.

  “Who's that?” Bhesadia lifted his head.

  “Sir...It's me…Iqbal.” He entered the cabin and stood near the door with a toothy smile on his face.

  Chapter 6

  Bhesadia stared at him. Normally, hardened criminals, ruthless murderers, mercenary killers, robbers and thugs stood before him; but in their place, an innocent-looking boy dressed in a white shirt and a pair of khaki shorts was standing befor
e him. There were textbooks in his hand, an ink pen in his shirt and a school badge shining on his chest.

  “Sit,” Bhesadia said, closing the file on his table and indicating a chair. Iqbal quietly sat on the chair and cleverly placed his textbooks on the table.

  “Dikra, what’s your full name?”

  “Iqbal Hussain Rupani.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I study, Sir.”

  “Do you know my name?”

  “Yes, I read it on the door.”

  “Have you ever read it in the news?”

  “Many times, Sir.”

  That was partly true. Those days, newspapers described Bhesadia's adventures in bold headlines. He was the talk of the town.

  “I’m the same Bhesadia.” He said with a tinge of pride in his voice and lifted Iqbal’s progress report kept on top of the textbooks. (Iqbal had anticipated the same.) He flipped through some pages and saw the results of the three terminal examinations of the year. Just to make sure that his eyes did not deceive him, he looked at Iqbal afresh and again scanned the mark sheet. Iqbal had stood first in the first examinations. In the next two, he had stood third and second respectively. In particular, he had secured the highest marks in Mathematics and Science.