Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  “What did he say?” Iqbal sat across him on a chair. A Gujarati attired in kurta-pyjamas sitting at a distance caught his attention.

  “He agreed to try it out before implementing the idea.”

  “A trial run!”

  “We will put stones equaling the weight of one hundred jackets in a bag tied to a nylon rope and dump it in forty bam waters. Then you will pull it with a steam launch up to the Versova coast. “

  “There is no need to experiment,” Iqbal said casually.

  Singh’s thick eyebrows quivered. Iqbal's eyes rested once again on the Gujarati wearing white kurta-pyjamas. He recalled the Gujarati had also been present here the last time he had come to meet Singh. Who could this elegant baniya be?

  “I’ve full confidence in my idea,” he said looking back at Singh. “Besides, I’ll be going on two months' leave from tomorrow.”

  “For what?”

  “To prepare for my examinations.”

  The reply made Singh ponder.

  “It’s a matter of just an evening,” he pleaded, “Can't you spare it?”

  “No.”

  “But...”

  “I don't have time to waste,” he said firmly and added, “If you don't trust me, you can take Dagdu and Michael along and try it out on your own.”

  Singh accepted this suggestion.

  The Gujarati in kurta-pyjamas got up, came up to Singh and asked for a match box.

  Singh flicked the lighter. The Gujarati lit his cigarette and went back to his seat. Iqbal thought that, like Singh, he must be a regular here.

  It was after seven in the evening when Iqbal reached Sharad's bungalow on Carmichael Road. On entering the gate, he found that the main entrance was at the other end of the lush green lawn. There was a tiled pathway leading up to it.

  He had crossed the cobbled path and had neared the entrance to the bungalow when he saw a cat writhing in pain. It perplexed him a bit. He pressed the doorbell. After a while, the door opened and he forgot about the cat. In fact he was dazzled. Colourful balloons and ribbons decorated the large drawing room of the posh bungalow. Rock-n-roll music was playing from a record player. There was also a light-disc as an added attraction.

  Boys and girls were dancing to ear-splitting music. Colourful lights in various configurations floated across the wall. Everything looked like a dream world.

  Treading lightly, he sat on a sofa parallel to the wall. In the darkness, he could see the dance of the colourful lights, but it was not possible to see the dancing faces clearly.

  In any case, he had little interest in faces. He had come here just as a formality; in truth, he felt like an alien in this western atmosphere. He decided to sit here for a while and leave the place soon after greeting Sharad.

  As the LP got over, the colourful lights went off too. The main lights came on. All the faces were now clearly visible. He knew most of them because they belonged to his college. The remaining boys and girls were perhaps from St. Xavier’s or some other college. But he could imagine that almost every student was having a gala time at the expense of his or her father's money.

  After the dance got over, all the couples dispersed gradually and sat down on chairs arranged against the wall. Kusum was sitting in a chair placed near the facing wall. She was chatting with a boy, unaware of Iqbal’s presence.

  Iqbal's eyes were searching for Sharad. Where was he? Had he not taken part in the recently concluded dance? The guests were present and the host missing! He had just gotten up to go to the next room when his friends saw him. “Hello, Iqbal!” someone said. “Hi, handsome,” another said. Kusum looked at him silently.

  Exchanging waves and smiles with friends, he made his way up to Kusum and inquired. “Where is Sharad?”

  “Maybe in the kitchen!” She replied sullenly. “You are late.”

  “It took me some time locating the address,” he agreed glancing at his wristwatch. “The cake must have been cut, I suppose!”

  “It’s already been eaten.”

  They were talking like friends; yet, the touch of melancholy in Kusum's voice did not remain veiled from Iqbal. “I’ve not yet greeted Sharad,” he said.

  She got up. “Come, I'll take you.”

  Before they could move, the main lights went off. The colourful lights reappeared, along with the shrill music. The young boys and girls, who had taken a short break, started dancing to the tune of 'Rock Around the Clock.’ It became difficult for Iqbal and Kusum to make their way through the crowd.

  “Kusum, I’m feeling suffocated in this western atmosphere.”

  She kept quiet.

  “To be frank, I’m planning to bolt after wishing Sharad,” he said again.

  “Is it necessary to greet him?”

  “Won’t he feel offended?”

  “Everyone has taken note of your presence here. If you want to leave, this is a god sent opportunity. Go…go away.”

  He continued to stand, in a complete dilemma. Music was reverberating in his ears. Strange shapes of coloured lights were swinging on his face. “Believe me Iqbal,” said Kusum, holding his hand, “The darkness is to your advantage, no one will notice you.” She started to head for the main entrance.

  “But...”

  “The dance will last for at least fifteen minutes. Sharad won’t let you go before dinner.”

  Bumping, crashing, colliding in the crowd, both reached the main entrance. They stopped.

  Iqbal's conscience pricked him – to leave without saying even hello would be an insult to the host. But why was Kusum putting pressure on him to leave? Why was she desperate that Iqbal should disappear as soon as possible? Did Kusum still fear that there would be tension because of her?

  (Iqbal was to get answers to all these questions the following day.)

  The lights came back on againi in a while and with them surfaced Sharad's face, smiling at both of them. He had probably come from some adjoining room and joined the dance halfway.

  “Hi, Iqbal!” He said lightly, coming closer to them. “Planning to escape?”

  “Not at all,” he replied, feeling a tinge of guilt. “How can I leave without meeting you?”

  “You can’t leave without dinner either. The party has just begun; it will gain momentum after midnight. If you wish, you can stay back for the night. We will have breakfast together in the morning.” Then turning to Kusum he asked, “What do you say? Can he leave early?”

  “Not before midnight.”

  Kusum's reply surprised Iqbal again. Just a couple of minutes ago, she was pushing him out. Why? Once again the question popped up and faded away, unanswered.

  He shifted his attention from Kusum's face to look at Sharad. “I’m accustomed to going to bed by nine. It is really painful to have to stay up late.” Smiling, he added, “I’m sure you won’t make anyone suffer on such an auspicious day.”

  Sharad pretended to think before replying, “You’ve a point there. Now, I won’t force you, I can only request you not to leave hungry.”

  He smiled, “But the food isn’t going to be served before midnight.”

  “At least you can have a bite of my birthday cake.”

  Iqbal could not refuse.

  Pleased, Sharad put his arm around his neck and turning to Kusum said, “You too tag along. In your presence, Iqbal will eat a piece or two more.”

  Suddenly, the rock music started and Kusum found an excuse to stay back. Sharad went ahead with Iqbal. “How many bedrooms are there in this bungalow?” he asked Sharad casually.

  “Six,” Sharad replied and volunteered some more information. “My mother and father use one bedroom, while another is for my sister and this...” pushing ajar the nearby door, “is my own bedroom.”

  Iqbal glanced through the door. Sharad's bedroom was air-conditioned. Every bedroom probably had an AC! Large posters of the Beatles adorned the wall opposite. Besides that, there was an aquarium with deadly piranhas, a model of the Taj Mahal enclosed in a glass case, a radio and a cuckoo clo
ck.

  As for the furniture, there was a walk-in closet and a cupboard fitted into the wall. Curtains hung over the windows, below which there was an exquisite bedstead. Imported crystal statues sparkled on the sideboard.

  “So what do you think?” Sharad asked proudly.

  “It’s like a dream come true.”

  Crossing the passage, both entered the kitchen, chatting. The kitchen of this luxurious bungalow was larger than Iqbal's room. The designer tiles on the walls were looking brighter in the soft light.

  “This cake is known as the king of all cakes.” Sharad made him sit on a barstool and passed him the cake lying on the kitchen table.

  Iqbal saw that only three slices had been eaten from the round six-inch thick cake. Taking a piece, he asked, “Is this your birthday cake?”

  “No, that has been eaten away.”

  “What about this one?”

  “My uncle sent it to me with his best wishes.” He then insisted, “You’ll have to finish it.”

  “So much!”

  “Listen, man!” he asserted affectionately, “I’ve already accepted your request to leave before dinner. To compensate, you will have to lick the plate clean.”

  Iqbal put one slice in his mouth. “It’s really delicious.”

  “Why shouldn't it be, after all it has come from the Taj Hotel.”

  As he savoured the slice, he had a doubt, “What did you say its name was?”

  “I haven’t told you. I thought, you’d know the name of the king of all cakes.”

  “I hope this isn’t the one called the Black Forest?”

  “The very same.”

  He pulled back his hand before taking another piece. “Sorry. I can't.”

  “But, you have already relished one piece.”

  “Had I known, I wouldn’t even have touched it.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it contains liquor”

  Sharad burst out laughing. “What a joke! It contains only as much alcohol as is used in certain medicines. Have you never taken a tonic?”

  Iqbal cleansed his hands with a tissue paper and got up. “I don't remember having taken one knowingly.”

  Sharad now realized the seriousness of his words. He didn’t know what to say. “Sorry pal. Had I known earlier...”

  “Forget it.”

  Both returned, talking.

  “I never had the slightest idea that you were such a fanatic.”

  “You said it. A fanatic. At the moment my plight is like a Jain who has mistakenly tasted beef!” said Iqbal.

  Sharad just stared at him wide-eyed. It was half past ten. Iqbal engaged a taxi at eleven to return home.

  For a four-wheeler to reach Dongri from Carmichael road at this hour takes not more than ten minutes; but once the convulsions started, the time seemed to stretch endlessly.

  A series of convulsions, starting from his legs, shook Iqbal’s entire body and reached up to his head. His head was bursting with pain. Slowly his body temperature also started rising. Eating the cake containing alcohol had shaken him mentally. Now cold convulsions were challenging his body. He felt as if he would collapse before reaching home.

  “Driver! Still faster!” he managed to utter, gritting his teeth.

  The driver was surprised. He was driving the taxi at full speed. “I want you to reach home, not the graveyard, in one piece,” he retorted.

  Iqbal was quiet. He did not have the strength to say anything. He was sitting on the back seat. He lay down.

  When the taxi stopped at the corner of Munda Galli, the driver realised the gravity of the situation. He opened the back door and helped Iqbal out. The boys working in Aziz Dilip's liquor den were surprised. They wondered how Iqbal, who never ever touched alcohol, had arrived drunk today.

  The taxi driver managed to bring the staggering Iqbal up to the first floor of Abbasi Manzil, which was a feat in itself. At home, everyone was asleep. The driver knocked on the door twice. Gul Banu opened the door. For a few moments she was stunned. She simply kept staring wide-eyed. The next thought she had was – her son had received severe beatings in a gang war.

  “Oh maa…!” Iqbal let go of the taxi driver who was holding him up and tried to enter the room. On the very first step, he buckled at her feet like a discarded puppet.

  Before Gul Banu could understand the situation, the taxi driver informed her, “The boy is suffering from high fever. Please call a doctor immediately.” The driver went down the stairs without taking the fare.

  At once on her knees, Gul Banu held her son’s wrist. She immediately pulled back her hand as if stung by a scorpion. Iqbal's body was burning with fever. His head was rolling from side to side. There was no time to think.

  She woke up Firoze and wondered – where would they get a doctor at this hour of the night? All the clinics in Dongri shut down after eleven in the night.

  “What happened to bhaijaan, mummy?” Firoze asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “He has a fever.” Saying this, she decided to try a home remedy. “Take any vessel, fill enough water and mix two spoonfuls of salt in it. We need to put a wet cloth on his forehead.”

  By the time Firoze came back with the saltwater container, Gul Banu had managed with much difficulty to help Iqbal lie down on the bed. Next, she placed a stool close by.

  Firoze placed the vessel carefully on it. Gul Banu sat on the edge of the bed. She folded a handkerchief, dipped it in the saltwater, rinsed it slightly and spread it across Iqbal's forehead. Firoze stood there staring. He had never before seen his elder brother in such bad shape. He again wanted to ask his mother if his big brother would be all right when Iqbal muttered, “Maa...my stomach is on fire... entire body is burning...if the agony doesn’t stop, I’ll...”

  His head stopped rolling. He had fainted. Firoze, who had suppressed his emotions all this while, started crying. Gul Banu was shaken by the sobs, which were as intense as hiccups, tears leaving snail-tracks down his cheeks. She thought Iqbal was dead.

  Dazed, she leaped up and as she stepped out of the house, somewhere, the clock struck two piercing the silence of the night. Once again, she became aware of the time. As she returned tense, she saw that Iqbal had started coughing – a sign of life. She felt relieved. Iqbal’s eyes were closed still. Intermittently, bouts of dry coughing would attack his body, compelling it to jump up and down.

  Ignoring Firoze's sobbing, she again dipped the handkerchief in saltwater and this time placed it on the belly. Iqbal's body had so much heat that water in the handkerchief soon evaporated. She again dipped the dry handkerchief in the saltwater.

  After repeating the process every minute, his body temperature dropped slightly but his coughing continued. That raised doubts in Gul Banu's mind – What type of fever is it? No one coughs so severely in fever.

  The voice of the muezzin emerged from the nearby Khoja masjid. Dawn was about to break. The night was almost over. Firoze had fallen asleep weeping. The words of the call, Allah O' Akbar, the God is great, raised Gul Banu's hopes.

  After a while, the neighbour’s door opened. Adjusting his skullcap, he came up to Iqbal's house, and froze on seeing the scene inside.

  “Sister, what happened?” he asked from the door.

  Gul Banu explained the situation in brief, saying, “the coughing has ceased but the temperature has started shooting up once again.”

  He stepped inside and holding Iqbal's wrist, exclaimed, “I guess the temperature is around a hundred and four! If it rises further, it could affect his brain.” Rushing out he assured Gul Banu, “I hope to find a doctor soon.”

  Iqbal's neighbour Noor Mohammed was fifty-five. He was kind. He was in the business of footwear. Only last month, Iqbal had withdrawn his brother Razzak from school and fixed him in his shop. Iqbal's request calls too came to his house.

  He returned in half an hour with the family doctor Khimani, who had been woken up from a sound sleep. The doctor entered, followed by Noor Mohammed carrying his bag.

&
nbsp; Dr. Khimani examined Iqbal's tongue and eyes, while listening to all the details from Gul Banu. He was shocked. All the symptoms described by her were not of any disease but of poisoning. “What did he have for dinner last night?” the doctor asked, taking out a thermometer from his bag and inserting it in Iqbal's armpit.

  “He wasn’t at home,” Gul Banu replied. “He had gone out for a birthday party.”

  The doctor pronounced that Iqbal had fallen ill because of food poisoning. He might have eaten something rotten, because of which poison had spread throughout his body. If the diagnosis was correct, he presumed the same food must have also affected other guests present at the party.

  The doctor was unable to say anything more because he could not confirm it, for no one knew where Iqbal had his last dinner.

  Iqbal was still lying unconscious. The doctor gave him a shot and turned to Gul Banu, “When he opens his eyes give him these two tablets. Soon he will vomit. If he doesn’t, rush him to Habib Hospital.”

  He got up. Noor Mohammed, who was quietly standing behind his chair, again picked up his bag and both of them left together.