Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  He got a First class. He had secured 91 per cent marks in Mathematics and 75 per cent in Science. In Physics-Chemistry, he got 71 per cent. We have seen under what circumstances he had given the examinations. His economic problems had not yet been solved. His condition was deteriorating day by day and he wanted to join college. What was the solution?

  Should he sell candy on the street?

  Or lift pots of water?

  It would break his back and he’d barely be able to make ends meet, let alone join college. This time round he thought of a new venture. He decided to start his own liquor brewery.

  Glancing at my notes, he interrupted, “Aabidbhai, this wasn’t exactly a brewery. It was an industrial unit to manufacture alcohol from tincture iodine.”

  “That amounts to manufacturing liquor.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “Where did you learn it?”

  “Moghul used to do the same.”

  Tincture iodine is nothing but ethyl alcohol mixed with iodine. Its original colour is brown. Iqbal used to store the tincture iodine in a drum. A vessel was kept inside the drum, which floated four inches below the top with the help of a steel pipe, pierced through its sides. This pipe was three inches longer at one end and bore through the drum where a rubber tube was attached to it. Before covering the drum, one pound of hypo was added to fifty pounds of tincture iodine. Then the stove placed under the drum was lighted.

  “This hypo is the same which is used by photographers in the darkroom?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Adding hypo has two benefits – first, it converts the brown tincture iodine into a colourless liquid and it also helps in speeding up the distillation process.”

  When the tincture iodine comes to a boil, the hot steam goes up, hits the lid and drops into the vessel in liquid form. The liquid comes out of the drum through the steel pipe and gets collected outside in a container through the rubber tube. This pure alcohol is then bottled and sold to liquor joints.

  Iqbal used to make on an average a hundred bottles of liquor in a day. The cost of producing one bottle used to come to four and a half to five rupees and was sold at seven. However, sales were not very high. He earned around 80 rupees by selling 35 to 40 bottles a day.

  His prosperity provoked Moghul. Originally, this racket belonged to him. Now, Iqbal had started supplying liquor to his customers. It was but natural that Moghul be furious. He issued two warnings to Iqbal. He did not believe in giving a third one. Iqbal ignored the warnings and continued expanding his illicit business as if Moghul did not exist.

  Moghul was to Iqbal as an elephant is to a mosquito. Moghul was tough enough to reduce Iqbal to pulp in a few seconds. However, a duel requires not just brute force but self-confidence as well. (Iqbal had plenty of it.) Armed with courage, even a David can slay a Goliath.

  Iqbal was returning alone late in the evening after supplying liquor to Shankar Maratha's Mazgaon joint. He started breathing hard by the time he reached Noor Baug Marriage Hall. He stopped for a while. Perhaps he was tired. However, words like tired, exhausted, drained had never been in his vocabulary. He was accustomed to criss-crossing the city by foot. He had never felt weary.

  Iqbal was deep in thought, resting against an electric pole. There was a wedding celebration taking place in Noor Baug. He could clearly hear the brass band playing and see a tree decked up with lights inside the gate. It was dark all around. In the centre of it all, the dazzling wedding festivities continued in full swing. There were plenty of cars parked outside.

  After recovering his breath, as Iqbal proceeded ahead, Moghul surfaced like a shadow from the corner of a shop and stood before him. Iqbal thought a wall had appeared in front of him. He retracted his footsteps muttering – Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you hulk!

  Both were facing each other, maintaining some distance. Words were unnecessary. It was a matter of survival for both.

  Moghul had assumed that, on seeing him, Iqbal would look for an escape route. Perhaps he would try to dart away. However, Iqbal fixedly stared at him, working out a strategy to mount an attack.

  Moghul took a step forward. Iqbal was ready for it. He had spotted a piece of bamboo lying nearby. If only he could lay his hand on it, he could easily teach Moghul an unforgettable lesson or two. Moghul took two more steps forward. Now only three steps remained between the two. Moghul was ready to attack. And attack he did. He charged at Iqbal with lightning speed.

  Instantly, Iqbal jumped up, picked up the bamboo stick and hit Moghul hard. This did not affect him much. Iqbal again raised the bamboo, but Moghul caught his hand and snatched it away.

  Now the bamboo was in Moghul‘s hand. He started thrashing Iqbal violently. Iqbal covered his face with both hands to prevent injury to his ears, eyes and other sensitive spots of his head. And at every opportunity that presented itself, he rained punches on Moghul’s face. He was determined to fight to the last drop of blood.

  One of his punches landed on the right spot. But Moghul’s nose did not bleed. On the other hand, Iqbal was receiving a barrage of blows from the bamboo stick.

  The sound from the brass band of Noor Baug was reaching a crescendo and the crowd of beggars outside was growing steadily. These destitutes invariably collect to watch the pomp and show of the rich. However, here in the dark there was just a dog, its tail wagging, watching, at a distance, the plight of Iqbal.

  Iqbal’s breathing once again became uneven. Why? Why were his quick punches getting weaker?

  Abdul Rehman Kafari’s punch used to break the head of his opponent like a coconut. Iqbal’s punch could at least break a nose!

  He had received several blows from the bamboo stick. He did not have the strength to withstand more. Just when he was about to give up, Moghul saw a jeep emerging from the Dongri police station lane. As if nothing had happened, Moghul threw the bamboo stick and walked away.

  Iqbal entered a nearby building and hid in the passage. The police jeep, which was on a routine patrol duty, went past. While leaving the building, Iqbal lurched forward and collapsed. It was only then that he realised just how badly he had been beaten up. His back had swollen and there was an excruciating pain in his head.

  He leaned on the wall, gathered whatever strength he had left and stood up. He took half an hour to reach Dongri, which was just a few minutes’ walk away.

  Instead of going home, he entered Palkhi Mohalla. Dr. Khimani’s clinic stands at the entrance of the Mohalla. Its closing time depended on the number of patients. Iqbal entered the clinic and sat down on a bench. He was drawing slow, ragged breaths. His entire body was in pain.

  He saw that there was no patient other than him in the clinic. He stood up again and entered the cabin.

  The doctor took one look at him and immediately surmised that somebody had him beaten up. This was nothing new for him. He immediately examined the nose, flashed a torch on the eyes and tongue, inspected the throat and placed the stethoscope to find out if anything had gone wrong inside the body.

  “Aren’t you Hussain Ali's son?” The doctor asked, administering a painkiller.

  Iqbal nodded in the affirmative.

  “What work do you do?”

  Iqbal was forced to think as he swallowed the tablet.

  “Please listen…” the doctor told him affectionately, “you suffer more if you keep secrets from a doctor. It’s obvious that you have been badly beaten up. But I can't figure out how you contracted asthma.”

  Iqbal now realized why he was having difficulty breathing. Why his punches carried no strength. He could guess at the cause of his asthma; but he did not consider it appropriate to reveal it to the doctor. The noble doctor too did not press him further.

  That night Iqbal slept under the influence of the pill. But he slept only fitfully. His sub-conscious mind kept admonishing him that God had sent him asthma as a warning because He did not want him to distill liquor.

  God wanted him to follow the path of righteousness. Was it necessary to t
aste forbidden fruit? Moreover, his chest had become hollow and it was impossible to survive in the lawless lanes of Dongri with a sunken chest. It was necessary to find a decent way of making a living.

  When Iqbal got admission into Bhavan's College, the condition of his family was like that of a racing car that had suddenly skidded. Iqbal was to play this game of snakes-and-ladder of finances throughout his career. The vicissitudes of life were to accompany him for the rest of his life. At one moment, he would sit on the pinnacle and the next moment, he would fall into a gorge.

  My joy knew no bounds when I got admission into the JJ School of Arts. However, my mother was submerged in deep thought. She wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer after graduation. At least, I would be getting a job with a minimum salary of a thousand rupees.

  “What will you get after spending five years in JJ?” She asked me with a tinge of hope in her voice. I did not have any ready answer to her question. I had only enthusiasm, euphoria and dreams that carried no meaning for my mother.

  Before her hope could turn into dismay, I said, just to console her, that I would become an art director in an advertising agency and earn more than she could imagine. However, I don't know why she did not believe it. Perhaps my words did not carry the necessary conviction.

  She simply looked at my face. It was not surprising that she saw through me! My life's real struggle was to begin after spending five years in college. I too was to get lost somewhere in the game of snakes and ladders.

  When my uncle, Mohammed Hussain came to know that I had been admitted into the JJ School of Arts, his brown eyes sparkled. He surveyed me from top to bottom and pulled out three hundred-rupee notes from his pocket to offer me.

  I was naturally surprised, because I had never before seen so much money at a time. (By this time, Iqbal had played in thousands.) I did not know what to do with these three hundred rupees.

  “Will you be joining the college in such tatters?” my uncle demanded. “Go, get yourself a pair of decent clothes. And yes, the monsoon has set in, so don't forget to buy a raincoat and gumboots.”

  Thinking that perhaps I might run short of cash, he gave me one more hundred-rupee note. “For the first time a boy from the Surti clan will enter college. It's not a joke; you must look your best.”

  Do not for a second entertain the mistaken notion that my uncle had hit the jackpot! His monthly salary was twelve hundred rupees. Nevertheless, his life style was that of the legendary large-hearted Hatimtai, the prince of Arabia. This was the reason why many a time his salary used to shrink to half by the time he reached home from his work place at Ghadiyal Godi. Yet, we were happy.

  Now there was no need for my mother to work for money. Our family's train was back on track. Whatever the shortcomings, now we could at least eat two meals a day in peace. Iqbal was not that fortunate.

  In the game of snakes and ladders, you throw the dice and climb up if you come across a ladder. The last time Iqbal had thrown the dice, he had climbed a small ladder. He had enjoyed the bliss for some days. Proceeding from there, he was trapped by a snake waiting with jaws wide open. He had fallen flat and come back to the spot from where he had begun.

  Of course, he was no more a child. He had left behind his school uniform of khaki half-pant and white shirt. He was a young man now and wore sparkling white attire that made other boys look pale in comparison. His favourite dress was a white long-sleeved shirt and a pair of trousers.

  Though he was not a muscular man, he had the guts to challenge a giant. His body was slim but fit, and hot blood flowed through his veins.

  His asthma was history. (Had he not given up distilling liquor, the disease would have stayed with him forever.) His schooldays too had become history. The days of selling candy and berries were long gone. The only thing from his past that remained loyally by his side was hunger.

  In the first month of college, he did not even have the bus fare to go to Chowpatty from Dongri. (Bhavan's College of Arts and Science was near Chowpatty beach.) He walked to college and walked back home, everyday.

  “One day, I returned home from college hungry and thirsty...” Sufi was telling me. “And I realised that the kitchen stove had not been lit at home. Both my younger brothers, who were still studying in school, had gone off to sleep without food. Mother was up and staring at me blankly.”

  Iqbal was not shocked. He knew that eventually his home front would collapse, but he did not imagine that it would happen so soon.

  Putting down his college books, he drank water from the earthen pot, climbed down and went to the mosque to offer prayers. He preferred to offer namaaz at the Khoja Masjid because it was close to his house. Besides, there was serenity in the sacred atmosphere of the mosque. This place was ideal for prayers and peace of mind. (Whenever Hussain Ali felt confused, he too used to come and relax here.) In this regard, Iqbal was following his father's footsteps.

  After offering namaaz, he sat in the mosque's courtyard for a long time. His stomach growling with hunger, he kept on thinking about the future. It was 10 o’ clock at night. He had almost spent two hours there. God had not offered so much as a hint as yet. He glanced at the inky sky as if he hoped to find some help there. He got up and came out. To discover that God had heard his prayer after all. Rashid Parkar, who was standing at the florist, approached him.

  “Hey, bugger! Planning to be a mullah?” He said lightly looking at Iqbal. “I’d been to your house and your mother told me that you would be in the mosque. When I looked inside, you were praying. Since then, I’ve been waiting here for you.”

  (In similar circumstances, Hussain Ali had met an acquaintance who had informed him about a vacancy in Link Bazaar and he got the job the next day.)

  Iqbal knew Rashid Parkar. They were five brothers and Rashid was the eldest. All the five brothers stayed in Ranmal Building, here in Pala Galli, and were much ahead of Iqbal in illicit activities.

  He asked Rashid a pointed question, “What's the work?”

  “Fetching water.”

  In underworld parlance, liquor bottles were called 'water'. Rashid needed an additional reliable man to smuggle in a large quantity of liquor bottles. The work was that of a 'helper' (in other words that of a coolie.) There was little need for intelligence. Iqbal had a reputation in Dongri as an honest and daring man, else Rashid would not have come personally to contact him.

  “How much will I get?” Iqbal asked the next question.

  “Two hundred rupees per trip.”

  Consumed with worry and anxiety, he thought of his home. He thought of his mother sitting there hungry and of his two brothers who had gone to sleep without food. He said, “I’ll take half the money as advance.”

  If you engage a coolie who demands half the money in advance, you will be surprised or perhaps take it as a joke and laugh. Rashid burst out laughing.

  “Don’t be funny!” he thumped Iqbal on the back and added, “Listen, come tomorrow.”

  “I won't come if you don’t give me an advance.”

  “You know how it is in our fucking business. No one gives…”

  “OK. If not hundred then give me seventy-five,” Iqbal conceded.

  Finally, it was settled at fifty. Rashid gave him five notes of ten rupees each. He went his way. Iqbal went to the nearby dhaba, bought four plates of biryani, got them packed and came home. He saw that his mother, starving since morning, had gone off to sleep.

  He emptied all the four packets of biryani in a large vessel, woke up everyone and sat down with them to eat. The cheap rice and mutton dish he had bought was a banquet to them. They all ate ravenously. Within no time, the entire vessel of biryani was licked clean.

  He washed his hands, wiped them and stuffed the remaining thirty rupees into his mother's purse. “This is for tomorrow,” he said briefly.

  His mother wanted to ask – Where did you get it from? However, she did not open her mouth. By now, she had accepted the stark reality. The families living in the filth of Munda Galli had
no right to complain about the foul smell. Instead she said, “I have never tasted such delicious biryani.” Indeed, for the famished, it was true.

  The next day, Iqbal left his house late in the evening and went to the corner of Pala Galli. There, two Ambassador cars were waiting conspicuously. In the first car, there were six persons, including the driver. In the second, there were five. Rashid was sitting next to the driver. He opened the door and Iqbal sat beside him on the front seat.

  Both cars started immediately and headed towards Ghadiyal Godi. Since the traffic was thin at this hour of the night, it took just seven minutes for them to reach the dock. Except for the drivers, all the ten men got out. Both the empty cars were to return here later.

  This was a new experience for Iqbal. He was to learn how an organised network functioned. He was to take one more step forward into the world of smuggling. He was to sink up to his waist in murky waters. He had already entered up to his knees.