Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  The shot had its effect. Iqbal opened his eyes. He was dazed by what he saw. There were no faces, only mist. Nothing was clearly visible.

  He looked with full attention at Gul Banu. The woman looked familiar! He had the feeling of having seen her somewhere. On trying harder, the hazy face came into focus. “Maa!” he asked, “Has Razzak left for school?”

  “No, son.”

  “Why?”

  “He has a job now,” Gul Banu reminded him. “It was you who had pulled him out from the school and fixed him there.”

  Suddenly the haze descended again. Getting puzzled, he again opened his mouth, “Maa, when will Razzak return from school?”

  Gul Banu felt like crying. The poison was having its effect on the brain. Iqbal was repeating the same incident again and again.

  After some time, Noor Mohammed returned from the doctor's clinic and got busy. “Iqbal!” he said, lifting him up with his hand placed behind his back, “Take these two pills.”

  Where are the pills? Who is asking me? The voice had drowned in a haze. Gul Banu brought her hand near his lips and put the two pills inside his open mouth. Then she gave him a glass of water. He washed down both the pills one after the other.

  Noor Mohammed made him lie down again. Gul Banu was profoundly touched – here was a gem of a man, a perfect model for anyone to emulate, who had tended to her son ungrudgingly. “Brother!” She said looking up in his face, “you have been on your feet since morning. You’ve missed even your morning prayers.”

  “I’ve only done my duty.” He sat on the chair vacated by the doctor. “As for the prayer, if for a day I offer the namaaz a little late my God is not going to be annoyed with me.”

  “But, you will be late for work too.”

  “It’s only eight in the morning. I can wait for at least one more hour. You please pray that Iqbal vomits soon.”

  Getting up from the edge of the bed, Gul Banu picked up the tasbih and sat on the mattress on which the two children were sleeping. Noor Mohammed too started praying silently.

  After ten minutes, Iqbal felt nauseous. Gul Banu put down the mala and picked up a bowl and again sat on the bed.

  After five more minutes, Iqbal sat up with a start. His mouth bent over the bowl. His vomit was black. Gul Banu and Noor Mohammed were bewildered.

  Had the doctor not told them before, Gul Banu would have certainly believed that the black vomit was due to the voodoo done on her son by an enemy. He would have vomited black only because of some black magic.

  She got up and started washing the bowl in the kitchenette under the tap. Noor Mohammed's face looked relaxed. He was no more needed here. Taking Gul Banu's leave, he left.

  After about an hour, Iqbal recovered slightly. He heard his mother shambling around the little kitchenette. He could now think clearly. He had heard some words while in his semi-conscious state. His brain started processing the word ‘poison’.

  Did the doctor suspect rightly? Had he been a victim of food poisoning or had someone tried to poison him?

  Chapter 20

  Iqbal was thoughtful in bed. All the events of the previous evening passed before him like a film strip…He had gone to Sharad’s bungalow on Carmichael Road to attend his birthday party. There in the kitchen, he had eaten just one slice of cake. Was that cake so rotten that it caused food poisoning?

  He had read about several such instances in the newspaper. All the guests at a dinner party were taken ill after eating sweets made from milk and had to be hospitalized. However, this could not have happened at Sharad's house. The piece that he had given Iqbal to eat was from a special cake.

  It was not the same cake that the rest of the guests were served. This was a special cake called the Black Forest brought from the Taj Hotel. Albeit, it was not whole. When Iqbal had taken a piece, there were already about three pieces missing.

  Who could have eaten those pieces?

  He thought of the cat in convulsions outside Sharad's bungalow. When he had entered, the cat had been writhing near the entrance. By the time he had left for home, the cat was already dead. Had the cat had a piece of that special cake?

  Gradually, more seeds of suspicion started sprouting in his mind. Now he thought of Kusum. He had found Kusum's behaviour at the party strange. She had been behaving as if she wanted to shove Iqbal out of the bungalow before he could touch anything. Then, Iqbal had been unable to understand her behaviour. Now, some of its mystery had unraveled.

  Sharad had spiked the cake with poison to bump him off. The cat had pounced on that same cake first. She might have smelt the egg in it. Or been attracted by the flavour.

  Kusum must have been aware of the poisoned cake. Perhaps that was the reason she behaved strangely. Despite this, it was certain that she was not a part of the conspiracy. Had she known about it beforehand, she would have definitely warned him over phone.

  Kusum still had a soft corner for him. Sharad's attitude was different. He was not only a coward but venomous as well. Pretending to extend his hand in friendship, he had tried to stab him in the back.

  “Sufi!” I interrupted, “What exactly do you mean by poison?”

  “What was mixed in the cake is known as arsenic.”

  “How did you know?

  “The symptoms of my illness were the same as those caused by arsenic.” He went on to explain. “For example, fever accompanied by cold, dry cough, dilation of pupils, loss of memory and lastly black vomit are all clear indications of it.”

  I recalled having read in a book that Napoleon too was killed by arsenic and he too had the same symptoms.

  This sordid incident had shaken up Iqbal. Though the poison was ejected out of his body through the vomit, its effect partly persisted. He could not see clearly.

  Whenever he tried to focus on an object, the fog would start rolling in his eyes. This did not affect his daily chores because they did not require concentration. What about his studies?

  He was to start preparing for his examinations in earnest from Saturday. But unfortunately, he was bedridden for a week due to weakness caused by high temperature.

  He picked up a book lying on the bed. As soon as he tried to read, the black letters turned into black ants and crawled away. He skipped a heartbeat.

  The next week he went to Dr. Khimani's clinic and explained. “Doctor, how can I appear for examinations if I can’t read? And, if I don't appear for the examinations, I’ll lose one full academic year.”

  The doctor reassured him, “There is no need to panic. Your eyesight will be normal in about a month!”

  “One month!” He jumped up. “For me each day is precious. Doctor, I want to go for medical and for that just passing marks won't do.”

  “What did you do throughout the year?”

  Iqbal did not reply. As was his nature, he left everything to fate. Whatever had come about was beyond his control. Moreover, was he in control of whatever was happening now? Every morning he would open a book and see the black letters turning into black ants. And he would be immediately crestfallen.

  Suraiyya and I were chirping, floating on clouds. For us, the question of preparing for examinations did not exist. Wherever we went, we had our sketchbook and colour pencils ready. Every study we did added to our storehouse of knowledge.

  At times, we would board a train from Bombay and reach Khandala. Capturing the landscape on paper, we would sleep in the lap of nature. The sky smiled, the trees crooned. It is a unique experience, lying flat silently on the green earth and looking at the sky or gazing at God’s window, as the Czech proverb says. Here was our world, in thin air and high hills, in places often solitary, but always holding the promise of adventure.

  Suraiyya could not remain quiet for long. She would say, “Life is like the soft fur of a rabbit.”

  I would say, “In Japan, more than a million innocent people were killed. An entire city was wiped out.”

  She would say, “Sometimes I feel I’m living out a dream!”

  I wou
ld say, “Israelis bombarded the Palestinian settlement and massacred more than three hundred people.”

  She would ask, “Who colours the rainbows of our dreams?”

  I would say, “The death toll in communal riots has crossed the figure of five hundred.”

  This time, as if she had grasped my words, she sat upright. “Aabid, you’re a pessimist.”

  “I just stated the truth.”

  “Please explain, how are we concerned with that truth?”

  “If our feelings are paralyzed, then it’s a different matter.”

  “You mean to say that I’m insensitive?” She burst out. “Here there is greenery, there are flowers, butterflies, there is a flowing spring, the sweet aroma of the air, you and me. And there, far-far away a man is killed whom we have never seen, with whom we have no relation; and by expressing your anguish over his death you may think it right to split vertically our intimate moments! I don't feel that way.”

  I too got up and conceded her argument. “Now, even I don't feel it right.”

  “Then, read this letter!”

  She took out an envelope from her purse and handed it to me. I observed that postage stamps of Mombassa were pasted on it. It was obvious that the letter was from her home.

  I took out the letter and read it. The expression on my face changed that very moment. Of course the problem was not that serious; her mother had called Suraiyya to spend the vacation with the family.

  “Had you been there last year?” I asked.

  She said loud and clear, "Nope.”

  “And this year?”

  “I’ll go if you permit.”

  I felt uneasy. She had every right to visit her mother once a year and I could not stop her just because of my selfishness.

  “Janoo, only you can take the decision. I can’t be a hurdle,” I told her frankly. “That will stifle the true spirit of love.”

  “Then, can I go after the exams?”

  “You have all the right.”

  “Are you willingly giving me permission?”

  “To tell you the truth, with a heavy heart.”

  “Then I won't go.”

  I teased, “Look, the vacation is one and a half months away. Do you feel it right to split vertically these romantic moments by worrying about it now?”

  She laughed. We walked silently, hand in hand, shuffling autumn leaves under us. There was no need of words, nor was there any desire to break this sublime silence.

  After the affliction in his eyes was rectified, Iqbal studied hard for a month, day and night, and secured 67 per cent marks, which were more than the 65 per cent required for getting admission into medical college.

  Suraiyya and I were in the first five on the merit list. To double our joy, Suraiyya decided to postpone her visit to her native place this year too. I decided to give her an expensive gift. My budget was limited to a hundred rupees and the problem was – What to buy in a hundred rupees?

  A sari?

  She had a pile of saris. Banarasi, Silk, Kanjeevaram... In art school, she dressed plain and simple. However, while accompanying me to a movie or spending an evening with me in a restaurant, she wore the most exquisite clothes.

  Sandals?

  With the question came the reply – In love, the gift of shoes is not desirable.

  Perfume?

  I bought a bottle of the internationally known brand, Chanel No. 5 and went to the hostel to present it to her. She accepted it with thanks and put a proposal before me. A girl from her hostel was going to Nainital. Suraiyya wanted both of us join her. I readily agreed.

  “But will you get permission?” I asked.

  “No one, including our hostel superintendent, will object to my escorting a dear friend.”

  “But what about me?”

  “Only me and my friend know this secret.” She gave a mischievous smile. “Even you don't know it.”

  We waved goodbye and parted.

  I spent two days in preparation. Before leaving, I needed to wind up several assignments here. I had to submit comic strips to ‘Ramakdu’ and ‘Parag’ for the coming months. My comic strip, 'Batukbhai' in 'Chetmachandar' (Gujarati) failed miserably and was discontinued. However, the one-page comic-story 'Prof. Chelbatau' had become quite popular. In the meantime, the editor of 'Chetmachandar', Shani, started misusing his pen and brush to indulge in yellow journalism. But its stigma had not touched me yet.

  On seeing Shani's condition, sometimes I used to detest him and at times pity him too. The creator of an immortal character like 'Nathubhai', who had the potential of becoming the Walt Disney of not just Gujarat but the entire country, was slipping into the gutter. And it was all his own doing. He had also started drinking recklessly.

  His decline had begun. From Gujarat, court case after court case was being filed against him. The people who he used to blackmail through his weekly were no ordinary persons. He had not spared even Dhebarbhai, a powerful politician of that era.

  Because of it, physical assaults commenced. The legal cases against him were only a pretext to harass him. He was compelled to leave Bombay to remain present in the courts of Junagadh or Rajkot. As soon as he stepped into the enemy territory, he was battered black and blue. He would return on a stretcher or with bandages.

  I was thinking of discontinuing my comic feature 'Prof. Chelbatau' when Shani started abusing the leaders of my Khoja community here in Bombay. I finally had a valid reason for leaving 'Chetmachandar'.

  During those very days, Dr. Dharmavir Bharati joined 'Dharmayug', a Times of India publication, as its editor. He created a special space on the magazine's last page for a comic strip. He wanted to give the space to an Indian cartoonist.

  He tried the most prominent cartoonists of the time (early sixties). Some comic strips lasted for a few weeks, while some others became stale after a few months. Now, there was no option left but to give the opening to an upcoming cartoonist. I received an invitation.

  In the excitement of going to Nainital, I had neither the time nor the scope to create a new character. However, I also did not want to lose the golden opportunity of gaining a foothold in the Times group.

  Before departing for Nainital, I submitted some cartoon strips under the name of 'Dabooji' to the editor. This was the new title in Hindi of my cartoon strip, 'Batukbhai', which the Gujarati readers had rejected.

  Our train was up to Pathankot. From there we were to go to Nainital by bus. The journey took two days, but it was not at all trying.

  When we boarded the train from Bombay, Suraiyya's cheeky friend Lubayna had already settled in with her baggage under the seat. We too parked our luggage and while sitting across her, looking at her nut-brown hair (so long that she could sit on it), the first question that struck me was –

  Lubayna was a student of Xavier College. She lived in the hostel with Suraiyya. She knew that Suraiyya and I were in love. It was but natural that we would like to spend most of the time together. My question was, would she not feel lonely?

  “Are you from Nainital?” I asked her as soon as the train started.

  Suraiyya gave the reply. “Lubayna is from Pune.”

  That knocked me off. Till then, I had been under the impression that she was from Nainital and had so invited us to be her guests.

  My mind rebelled. There was chaos. I should not have joined the trip. I would be required not only to look after Suraiyya but, despite my unwillingness, take care of Lubayna as well… and she glittered too much for my liking. The presence of a third person between two lovers is not a pleasant experience.

  After about ten minutes, the train stopped at Dadar station. To my and Suraiyya's surprise, a jovial, tall, young, well-built man entered our compartment. He offered his hand. His clasp was warm and surprisingly gentle for such a large man. He was Anil, Lubayna's boyfriend. He was affluent and rather sweet, but completely under her thumb. I looked at her with wide eyes. Now I could see through her game.

  She wanted to spend her vacation with her
boyfriend outside Bombay. But her problem was getting the hostel’s permission. Therefore, she persuaded Suraiyya. Unwittingly we had fallen prey to a lovely conspiracy.

  Anil's arrival rid me of one major headache. From then on, we were to enjoy our trip. Each day of the vacation flew past in a jiffy. To quote Suraiyya's words – We would be living a dream. Eyes closed, I could feel her eyes fluttering under the lids…

  If we were floating on the clouds, Iqbal was trying to plant his feet firmly on the ground. He had grim realities to face. The time for a ‘crossing’ was due.

  “Iqbal…” Singh perked up on seeing him after a long gap. “Your new idea is fantastic.”

  “Did you try it out?”

  Happily, Singh opened a bottle of Scotch and confirmed proudly, “yes, under my own supervision.”

  He had taken along two of Iqbal's colleagues, Dagdu and Michael, on the steam launch and dumped a bag stuffed with stones into the sea. The bag was tied to a nylon string. The other end of the string was tied to the lower portion of the steam launch. Then the bag was dragged from the Indira dock to Uran Island. After pulling up the bag, he had expressed full satisfaction over the scheme.