Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  “Do you come here often?” Kusum asked.

  “It’s very peaceful here at this hour of the day,” he replied. “Besides, no one disturbs me.”

  Kusum got the hint and said, “Were you disturbed by my coming here?”

  “No, but your boyfriend must have been.”

  “Who told you that he is my boyfriend?”

  Iqbal thought for a while before replying. “How else would you describe a boy who considers you his personal property?”

  “Madness. Craziness. One-sided love.”

  “If this is true, then I think you should clarify it.”

  “I tried once.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me who was in my life if not him.” And she looked straight into Iqbal's eyes.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I’ve yet to reply.”

  “You aren’t bound,” said Iqbal. “Yet, if there is someone you love, you should tell him.”

  Placing both her hands around his neck, she became emotional, “Iqbal!” and confessed, “I love you. Look into my eyes, you live in every pore of my body.”

  Slowly disentangling her hands from his neck, he said, “That’s called madness, craziness, one-sided love.” Kusum was shocked. She felt as if someone had crushed her dreams just as someone crushes a cigarette stub under his shoe.

  “Kusum!” Realising her agony, Iqbal clarified, “I know you are disturbed by my frankness; but it’s true. Neither do I love any other girl nor do I have time for love. Don't you know me?”

  The scene of Iqbal climbing down the pipe from the back of the Sagar Darshan building flashed through Kusum's eyes. And into that image merged the ringing of a bell, making her realise that the recess was over. There was no scope for arguing now.

  Iqbal cut the silky thread of his college love. He uprooted the sapling of love before it could bloom. The same year, love put forth its tiny leaves for the first time in my life. I had ample time to raise and nurture this lovely plant. There was total peace in my life.

  I had two sources of income, journalism and the film industry. My cartoons were getting published in different magazines. After introducing four pages in colour in the monthly, 'Ramakdu', a two-page cartoon comic 'Doctor Chinchu Ke Chamatkar' was launched in the Hindi magazine, 'Parag'. There was additional income from the film industry. Moreover, I was getting a scholarship from the art school.

  We were drawing still life that day. There was a wooden block in the middle of the room covered by a violet coloured sheet. On it was placed a transparent jar containing a sunflower. Behind it, there was a white china plate.

  All of us students were sitting in a semi-circle around it on our benches, and drawing the arrangement on a sheet of paper with a charcoal stick. My right hand was busy drawing and the left hand was groping for an eraser. Not finding it, I withdrew my attention from the drawing and started looking under bench, to the left, to the right, and my eyes were suddenly transfixed. Suraiyya was sitting by my side.

  This was our second year in college. We must have crossed on several occasions on the stairs and in the classroom, but had never cared to look at each other. Today, as we locked eyes, it was like we were meeting for the first time. An electric current passed through us during these few moments.

  Suraiyya was not as beautiful as a fairy, not as petite as a poet would imagine, nor as buxom as a photographer’s model. Her skin was wheatish, her nature was quiet, her body was shapely and her eyes were mesmerising.

  I had not fallen in love, but jumped into it. I was to conquer the peaks of success one after another. My first novel Tutela Farishta (Broken Angels), was to be born after the tragic end of this unforgettable affair.

  Iqbal too had made progress in the underworld. He had climbed one more step. The boss, whom he had never met, was pleased with him. He had given Iqbal an opportunity, through Singh, to experiment.

  Iqbal was standing at the entrance of the hotel room. Singh was drinking alone at leisure in the middle of the double bed. Iqbal's eyes panned the room and got fixed on his square face.

  “Relax!” Singh made him sit comfortably near him and handed him one portion of the half-torn five-rupee note. Before he could ask, Singh informed him, “You will be going for ‘crossing’ on Saturday night.”

  The window was open and a salty wind was blowing in from the sea, making the window curtains wave. Had Kiran been there, her hair too would have danced like waves.

  “How much are the goods worth?”

  “Five crores. But, our stuff is just one and a half crores, the rest belongs to the syndicate,” he explained.

  Syndicate meant a group of four to five assorted mini traffickers. Sometimes they got their goods loaded with the big player’s consignment from Dubai, on a commission basis. In a way it was a joint venture.

  Iqbal's eyes again drifted to the window. The room was the same, the walls were the same, the sofas, curtains were the same and yet something seemed amiss. “Kiran hasn’t come today,” Singh remarked, reading his mind.

  He stared at Singh. Was he, Iqbal, missing Kiran? Probably. She was stuck in his thoughts.

  Chapter 15

  I have yet to unravel one of nature’s mysteries: Why were there always more girls in my life than boys? Even today, my friends tend to be women. Society tried to label such friendships then; it is still trying.

  Is the woman my sister? My cousin? My girlfriend? There has to be some distinct identity. Whenever society’s questions, simmering in the eyes, find their way to the lips, I am compelled to reply. I tell them, “If two men can be intimate friends, and two women can be friends for life, why can't a man and a woman be true friends?”

  My answer did not satisfy anyone then and, even today, my friends are suspicious. I do not care because I know that society is used to seeing everything in black and white. Anything without a label becomes cause for worry and fear.

  It was an altogether different matter with Suraiyya. Despite being in her second year at the JJ School of Arts, no boy had ever entered her life thus far. It was love at first sight.

  We were drawn to each other like the opposite poles of a magnet and yet, I did not have the courage to invite her to watch a film or a play. I did not even have the nerve to take her to the family-room of a café for a cup of tea.

  After thinking about it until late in the night, I made up my mind; two months had passed since we had grown close. If I didn’t take the initiative now, even my youth would pass away.

  “Suraiyya!” I told her the next day, “Can you come this Saturday?”

  She shyly lowered her eyes, then, smiling, looked up. Her lips quivered. “Where to?”

  I wanted to say ‘picnic’; but the word did not find its way to my lips.

  “To the zoo!” I blurted. I was a perfect candidate for the looney bin.

  “To the zoo?” She was surprised.

  “I want to draw some sketches of birds and animals.”

  She did not refuse.

  Suddenly there was a flutter of warmth and excitement in the pit of my stomach. My joy knew no bounds. I started hectic preparations. There were still three more days to go before our date. I bought a new terry-cot shirt, got a tin of shoe polish and a brush as my shoes had not been polished for months. I ironed the best pair of trousers I had and put them under the mattress of my cot.

  On Saturday morning, under the mild January sun, I reached the Victoria Garden half an hour early and stood near the main gate. We had fixed our rendezvous for 9 o' clock . Just to while away time, I opened my drawing pad and started sketching passers-by.

  My sketchbook and I are inseparable. My charcoal pencil produces a running commentary on life. I sketch on buses, in trains, waiting at the dentist’s, while I am eating at Udipi restaurants, indoors or outdoors, it’s all the same to me.

  I did not have to wait long for Suraiyya. She arrived fifteen minutes earlier than the appointed time and I simply looked at her. She had the chaste look of a fai
ry in a brand new pink churidar she had worn. A ribbon was holding her hair in a ponytail at her neck. She had a sketch-pad in one hand and a basket in the other. I could not imagine what the basket contained as it was neatly covered with a white napkin.

  I asked her.

  “I’ve brought some sandwiches and fruit,” she revealed coyly. I felt thrilled. We were to spend the whole day here, but the idea of lunch had not occurred to me. Suraiyya had taken charge of me from our very first date.

  We entered the zoo and after crossing the vast green lawn, reached the monkeys’ cage. Here there were both local bandars and foreign langurs. We started drawing quick sketches of monkeys in different poses.

  I had collected some information about Suraiyya in the last two months. She stayed in the girls' hostel on Marine Drive. That meant her family lived not from Bombay. She had come here for further studies. “Suraiyya!” I asked, “What does your father do?”

  “He died in a plane crash when I was a child.” She had a faraway look as she remembered. I expressed my regret. “My mother lives with two elder brothers and their families,” she added. We were drawing and talking simultaneously.

  “The brothers are employed somewhere?”

  “No. We have a departmental store in Mombassa.”

  It was evident that she had come from abroad. It was also obvious that she belonged to a rich family. “What about your father?” she asked, steering the conversation in my direction.

  “My father too died when I was a kid,” I said and thought it prudent to give her some more information so that she doesn’t remain under the impression that I too belong to an affluent family like hers. “My uncle works in the dock,” I added. “Our family survives on his salary.”

  We left the monkey cage, came near this cage of colourful birds and stopped there for a while. “You disappear for a few days every month.” She kept the basket near her feet and started drawing the birds. “Where do you go during those days?” I realized that though I had started taking an interest in her for the last couple of months, she had set her eyes on me much before that.

  “I assist on film shoots. That’s my additional source of income,” I replied.

  “What is the other source?”

  “Journalism.”

  She lifted her face from the sketchbook and looked at me. There was a gleam of respect for me in her eyes.

  In the afternoon, we ate sandwiches and apples sitting on the green lawn of the Victoria Garden and had tea in the canteen sitting on wooden benches. It was winter. We did not realize when the sun set.

  When I returned home after dropping Suraiyya at her hostel, every pore of my body was tingling with joy. My drawing pad too was full of sketches. I had also stealthily drawn some rapid sketches of Suraiyya as she moved to and fro.

  I looked at those sketches till midnight. I heard the clock strike twelve. Thereafter, as the clock struck once to indicate twelve thirty, I fell asleep.

  Iqbal was awake. Saturday night was an important night for him. It was his first ‘crossing’ as the leader of a gang. The caravan of two Ambassador cars stopped at Bhaucha Dhakka. It was a dark night. One could see from the jetty the outline of the naval ship 'Vikrant', which patrolled the sea. It was anchored at a distance. Because its lights were dimmed, it appeared like a shadow.

  The lanterns of half a dozen motor boats anchored at the dock were swaying with the gentle waves. Their reflections in the water were swinging also. One of the steam launches, Al Kabir, belonged to the gang.

  During the day, as a ruse, Al Kabir ferried passengers between Bombay and the nearby Uran Island. In the night, it went for crossing carrying traffickers, which was its main task.

  As Iqbal got down from the car along with his men and they took their place in the launch, the boatman put off the lantern and moved the boat slowly in the direction of the lighthouse. Iqbal stood on the deck. He was wearing a sky blue sweater over a full-sleeved white shirt. He had a belt around his waist. A white pair of trousers and white shoes adorned the lower half of him.

  He had to take extra care to maintain this whiteness; but that was not his concern as of now. His eyes were trying to pierce the darkness. The only thing visible to him, besides the lighthouse and the naval ship, was the dark sky on which some stars were twinkling.

  He moved from the deck and sat on a bench among the members of his gang. He saw that they were sitting quietly shivering in the cold. The only thing interrupting the silence was the whirring sound of the engine and the slapping of the waves.

  The thought of Hamid struck Iqbal while glancing at the seven-member crew. It was Hamid who had led these men for a ‘crossing’ last time. “Since how many years was Hamid doing the ‘crossing?” he asked Dagdu, a co-worker sitting next to him.

  Dagdu was a rustic Maharashtrian with an awful, grating, croaking voice like an old crow. But he was a friendly person. He had begun his career as a corrupt coolie at the Bori Bunder Railway station. From there he had progressed and joined the gang.

  “I’ve worked with him for nearly six years,” he told Iqbal.

  “It must have been at least eight years,” another member guessed.

  A third one was inspired to say something more. “Hamid was lion-hearted; but the bastard had a weakness: his anger. No one could predict when he would explode.”

  Michael, sitting across him, vouched, “That's why we used to call Hamid ‘Bhadak’ (always angry) privately. The best part is when he came to know about his nickname, he laughed heartily.”

  “Not only that,” Dagdu interjected enthusiastically, “He proudly told his wife also.”

  “Is he married?”

  “He has seven children. The eldest is in college.”

  “How old is Hamid then?”

  “Must be over forty, sort of a slender build but not skinny,” croaked Dagdu, “But boss, why are you asking all these questions?”

  Iqbal liked the address 'Boss'. For the first time somebody had looked up at him with respect.

  “Perhaps I can be of help to him,” he said.

  “Forget it man,” said Altaf, a weirdo with a drooping mustache, who had remained silent all the while sitting besides Michael. “He is beyond help.”

  As the lighthouse approached, Iqbal got up. He again stood atop the launch. His beady eyes stared out into the darkness, trying to sniff out any dangers lurking there. After a while, when the siren of 'All Clear' sounded in his mind, he took a deep breath of salty air. Al Kabir crossed the lighthouse and stopped at a distance. The place of rendezvous was somewhere near here as the depth of the sea at this point was forty bams. (One bam equals six feet.)

  This was the place chosen for the crossing. It was somewhere here that the launch from Dubai carrying gold worth five crore rupees was to appear. Nothing was visible due to the darkness.

  He took a matchbox from the boatman standing behind, lit a matchstick and held it in his hand. It burnt out shortly. After waiting for a minute, he lit another matchstick. There was no wind but it was bitterly cold. His hands were shaking.

  A few days ago, New Year's Eve was celebrated here. The light bulbs decorated on the naval ships Vikrant, Shivaji and other small and big boats had sparkled, turning the midnight into day. Moreover, laser lights were beamed across the sky.

  Iqbal lit the third and last matchstick. When that too burned out, he stared at the darkness. He had performed his duty. He had informed the launch from Dubai hidden somewhere about his presence and the location of Al Kabir with the lighting of the three matchsticks. Now, it was the turn of the invisible boat.

  After a five minute wait, the first matchstick was lit. At that distance it looked like a twinkling star in the dark night. Iqbal's eyes got fixed in that direction. The boatman standing behind him took two steps forward and came close by. Both watched silently.

  Just like Iqbal had lit each matchstick after a minute's interval, three matchsticks burned out from the launch across. Iqbal looked at the boatman. The boatman started Al Kabi
r and came shortly near the launch from Dubai. After the engine stopped, he extended a boathook to the opposite launch, fixed the hook and brought both the launches side by side. His assistant fixed another boathook from under the launch.

  Iqbal observed that there were not more than five men on the other launch. Of these, two appeared to be either Indians or Pakistanis. The other three were Arabs. One of them was the leader.

  Iqbal took out the torn five-rupee note kept carefully in his trouser pocket and extending his hand gave it to the Arab. He immediately took it and with the help of a small torch, compared it with the other half of the note he had with him.

  The transfer of gold biscuits worth five crore rupees was about to begin in mid-sea at 2 o’clock in the morning, in pitch black darkness and under the open sky. There was tension on both sides. No one knew what might happen, but everyone knew for sure that at the successful completion of the operation, each of them would get twenty five thousand rupees. Iqbal was to get double the amount.

  After confirming that both the portions belonged to the same bank note, the Arab lifted the torch and looked at his face carefully. He had never seen Iqbal during earlier crossings. It was natural for him to be first reassured before handing over the goods.