Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  “But can't the journalists expose them?”

  “How?” he asked. “The bosses are behind the curtains and enjoy prestigious positions in society. And when such a VVIP gives out exclusive information to a journalist that Mastan is a smuggler, he happily dashes to the press with the story.”

  “Was Mastan not a smuggler?”

  “He was, but a small fry. His bosses were Marwari industrialists.” Sufi elaborated, “The name of the Choraria family was flashed by newspapers for the first time in 1961.”

  “I recall three Choraria brothers who were convicted for gold smuggling.”

  There were seven brothers in that Marwari family: Poonamchand, Laxmipat, Bhuramal, Balchand, Gyanchand, Kundanwal and Girdhari. As a ruse for carrying out smuggling, they had set up three offices in different countries. One was in Lagos, another in London and the third in Hong Kong.

  Besides gold smuggling, they were also involved in the foreign exchange racket. For that they used their travel agency in Lagos. They had siphoned off large amounts of foreign currency from Nigeria by issuing bogus airlines tickets from that office.

  Had they not offended the religious sentiments of the people including parliamentarians by stealing antique statues from our temples they would have never been exposed. Besides, those who operate from behind the scene cannot afford to be in the limelight. The second blunder committed by the Choraria brothers was precisely that.

  “Haji Mastan worked under one of the brothers, Girdharilal.” Sufi informed, “Gold came from Dubai and Mastan's gang did the ‘crossing’ and delivered it to Girdharilal.”

  If we ask any reader even today how many smugglers’ names he can cite, he would mention the names of at least two Muslims.

  (Deputy Customs collector Daya Shankar's views expressed in his interview to Gita Manek of 'Sandesh' weekly reflected Sufi's thinking on this issue. The impression that a smuggler is always a Muslim is baseless.)

  The fact is – members of all communities and creeds are engaged in underworld activities in India. For example, in Dongri where Muslims are a majority, the Muslims dominate the underworld.

  Similarly, South Indians dominate Sion-Koliwada. It is not surprising that Vardabhai rules the underworld there. Marathas dominate the Lalbaug-Parel area, where no Muslim or South Indian don dare to establish his rule.

  In the world of mafia, fundamentalism is almost absent. It won’t be far from the truth to say that they believe in co-existence.

  Let us examine the composition of DK's gang. He is a Gujarati Hindu businessman, but his right hand man is Iqbal, a Muslim. Iqbal's comrade in arms is Singh, a Sikh. Those working under them included Dagdu, a Maratha, Michael, a Christian and Altaf, a Muslim. (Sufi informs us that even the supremo of the Hindu fanatic party – the Shiv Sena – Bal Thakeray, has Idris, a Muslim, as his personal body guard.)

  Every gang is composed of members not based on their religious affiliation but their strength and utility. It makes little difference whether the gang belongs to DK or to Dawood, one would find that they live in communal harmony. This does not mean that they do not indulge in gang wars.

  At times, these wars assume a communal colour; but basically these are fought for survival or for expanding their territories of influence. And, on both the sides, members from various communities take part in these wars.

  For further clarification, let us take a brief look at history. Shivaji fought till the last against Aurangzeb. Was it a holy war? If that was the case, none of the Muslim chieftains in his army would have participated.

  Tipu Sultan had invaded the neighboring Hindu states. That is a historical fact. Was it a holy war? If that were the case, Tipu Sultan's ten Hindu chieftains would never have taken part in it.

  Coming back to the main subject, another important issue comes to mind. The so-called smugglers of yesteryears had taken oath before Jayprakash Narayan (1978) and turned builders. Now the question is…was the oath taking ceremony a sham?

  How many of them who had taken the oath to give up illicit business were the godfathers who operated from behind the scene? None. Only those sharks attended the function who were already exposed by the media. Where are the rest? Who are they? What are they?

  Only a handful of people knows this secret because they are the links between the godfathers and the gang. For example, people like Singh, who was a link between DK and the gang. Iqbal would have perhaps not crossed that link and reached the top in his lifetime had he not played his Hamid trump card.

  Beside the link, if there is anyone else who knows this secret, it is our government. (The home department of every country has a list of mafia dons; our government is not an exception.) A common reader may ask – If the government knows everything, why does it feign ignorance? The question is not irrelevant.

  The answer lies in the fact that the government needs the help of these godfathers from time to time, particularly during election time. They too give donations to the government with open arms. Besides, they also lend their armies to the political parties likely to emerge victorious. Not just the bigwigs, the government too knocks at the doors of these outlaws at election time.

  Before the Emergency, Haji Mastan had told the Urdu newspaper 'Aaina' in an interview to its editor Shamim Ahmed Shamim, “The politicians abuse me by the day, but they lie prostrate before me by night for donations.”

  On the publication of this interview, there was much turmoil in the Indira Gandhi government. Mastan became a target. The government cannot tolerate the bitter truth! Moreover, the other sharks were also getting bolder. Following the imposition of the Emergency, the government rounded up all of them and put them behind bars.

  The link between the government and the mafia is unbreakable. The don of Sion-Koliwada, Varadarajan Mudaliyar, alias Vardabhai, had admitted publicly that the former chief minister of Maharashtra Vasantrao Patil had approached him for help during the elections.

  In Vardabhai's words (1980): “I had played an active role for ensuring the victory of Congress candidates Sharat Dighe and Gurudas Kamat and both of them won.” Not only this, he also claimed that it was because of his support that former finance minister Subramaniam too had won the election.

  Like Mastan, Vardabhai too committed the serious mistake of fingering the government. (The big bosses never make such silly mistakes and hence they have managed to remain godfathers.) Varda was at the peak of his career at that time. He enjoyed the full support of Mastan. (Both had started working in tandem from the docks.) No one had the guts to walk tall in his area. To Vardabhai's misfortune, an honest officer entered his territory. This was deputy commissioner V. C. Pawar.

  With a view to fixing him, Vardabhai started exposing the policemen-- with concrete evidence. The police department could not stand the bitter truth. Ultimately, Vardabhai had to leave Bombay and settle down in Madras where, after a few years, he breathed his last.

  When a Varda dies, another Varda takes his place. When one Mastan retires, another Mastan grabs his place. When one government falls, another comes to power. The same rule applies to the underworld.

  Both these power centers exist with each other's blessings. Since years, the bond is such that they cannot survive without each other's support. Since years, the godfathers have been ruling from behind the scene.

  These godfathers come before us donning the garb of industrialists or of social reformers. Sometimes, they win elections and adorn the seat of power, and at times sit amidst us wearing kurta-pyjamas.

  If we take out a protest march against 'corruption', they modestly undertake to pay for all expenses. When there was prohibition in Bombay, the bootleggers’ bosses organized the largest rally with tens of floats against the evils of drinking. And that too on the birthday of Mahatma Gandhi.

  Finishing his coffee, Singh put down his empty cup on the center table and looked at the other two sitting silently. Iqbal's eyes were surveying the interior of the flat. If one ignored some of the old furniture, the flat was freshly dec
orated. The look was quite modern. Yet it blended old fashioned beauty with modern convenience.

  Finally, DK broke his silence and asked Singh, “Do you have five hundred bucks on you?” Singh immediately took out five hundred-rupee notes and handed them over to DK. DK offered them to Iqbal.

  “For what?” he asked, accepting the money.

  DK smiled and reminded tersely, “For saving Hamid from the hangman's noose.”

  Iqbal put the notes in his pocket. He had completely forgotten in the glitter of the flat that he had demanded five hundred rupees to save Hamid from the death sentence in a murder case.

  “Don't hesitate to ask for more if you need it,” DK whispered teasingly. With friends, he was a gregarious, charismatic person.

  Iqbal did some counting on his fingers and declared, “No, I won’t need extra. In fact, after meeting all expenses, I’ll be left with some money.”

  DK's expression changed from sarcasm to amazement. His intellect could not grasp what miracle this young man would wreak in the trial, which a barrister charging fifty thousand rupees for a day's appearance in the court was not hopeful of achieving. Yet, he had the confidence – the Young Turk sitting across him was not among those who boasted in vain. Moreover, Iqbal was laconic and DK respected those who talked less. Else getting a chance to meet the big chief, he could have boasted about his achievements no end.

  “DK,” Iqbal addressed him for the first time, “don't you want to know how I will save Hamid in five hundred rupees?”

  Since the last several days, Singh had been desperate to know about his mysterious plan. DK knew how to keep his curiosity under check. Iqbal was just assessing him. He had planned to smile if DK replied in the affirmative.

  “Hamid is out on ten lakhs’ bail,” Singh blurted out, unable to keep his patience any longer. “If you are planning to send him to Dubai by Arab’s boat, forget it. DK won't appreciate that.” Iqbal continued to fix his gaze on DK, as if Singh didn’t exist. DK said nothing. He left it to Iqbal to decide whether or not to disclose the answer.

  Iqbal realized…DK was deeper than he had imagined him to be.

  “Listen!” DK said before he left with Singh, “If you succeed in giving a fresh lease of life to Hamid, I’ll make you a partner in our business.”

  Iqbal was not surprised because he had played his cards well; but Singh's eyes popped out of his head.

  Chapter 23

  As I stepped onto the soil of Nainital, a lush hill station with rolling hills and large old trees, I looked up at the sky with the intensity of a landscape painter imprinting a picture on his mind. I had never before seen such a crystal clear azure sky. The Naini Lake caught its reflection, its water turning an equal blue.

  We were a team of four. Suraiyya and I and Lubayna and Anil...We had on us only as much baggage as the hippies used to carry in those days. Our hands were free but a bulky rucksack containing all the essential things hung from our backs. Anil had a guitar too.

  Those were the days of summer vacation. Nainital was swarming with tourists following the closure of schools and colleges. Instead of staying there, we took a bus and went to a nearby village, Bhavali, and set up our camp in a serai (boarding house). Our room was small, but cute. Sunlight would busy itself making rainbows there.

  We used to take a bus daily in the morning to Nainital, spend the entire day there and return to our camp by the last bus in the night. Despite the trying excursion during the day, Anil would always play at least one song before going to bed. All the boys in the serai used to come running to listen to him.

  Next day, we would be in Nainital again. There Suraiyya and I would try to capture the colours of the nature with our watercolours, while Lubayna and Anil would frequent different restaurants and hotels.

  “Aabid!” Suraiyya said one day, “Nainital looks more dazzling in the night than day.” I got the hint. The rippling reflection of colourful lights in the Naini Lake looked astounding. In fact, I too was itching to capture the beauty of Nainital by night in my sketchbook. However, the problem was that of time.

  By foot, our camp was quite far and the last bus was at eleven in the night. If we missed that bus, we would have to spend the night in Nainital in a hotel, which our pockets would not permit. Moreover, being the tourist season, all the hotels were full. There was no room even in the local dharamshala (resting house) to spread a bed sheet.

  Suraiyya came up with a solution. “Let’s start drawing after seven in the evening. We can easily complete it by ten.” I hoped she was right.. We had just chosen an appropriate spot on the hill when another problem cropped up. The spot, while ideal in that from there one could get a full view of Nainital, was dark. That meant we could not both paint simultaneously.

  I suggested, “You paint first while I’ll hold the torch over your paper.”

  “Oh no!”

  “What difference will it make if I try tomorrow?”

  She did not agree. “You paint today, tomorrow will be my turn.”

  “No, janoo, basically it was your idea.”

  “I merely echoed your thought,” she asserted. “Tell me the truth! Didn’t you want to capture this scene on paper?” Conceding, I got out my hand-made paper pad, watercolours, and the box of wax crayons and soon was immersed in drawing. Suraiyya stood behind me, shining the torch over my shoulder, and observing me draw.

  First, I drew a rough sketch with a pencil, then deepened some of the lines with black waterproof ink and filled the necessary colours with wax crayons. Lastly, I prepared a thin wash of blue and using a thick brush spread it over the whole paper meticulously. The blue did not touch the wax colours filled before. This made the crayon colours look like the dazzling reflection of the lights in the lake. The painting was splendid.

  (This painting met with tragedy. On reaching Bombay, I exhibited it in a group show. The first connoisseur of art who entered the gallery booked the painting. My chest swelled with pride. The show was for a week. During those seven days, nine other art lovers liked the same painting and I had to disappoint them all. The tragedy was that the gentleman who had booked it was to take the delivery on the last day. He did not turn up to make the payment.)

  I became aware of the time only after completing the painting. It was already half past ten in the night. There was just half an hour left for the last bus. Anil and Lubayna were to meet us there. This was our routine.

  Hurriedly, we packed up everything, clambered down the hill and dashed for the bus depot. Both of us were aware of the fact that we did not have much time. But it was necessary to make a determined attempt.

  “Why didn't you warn me on time?” On the way I censured Suraiyya, “Didn't I tell you to stop me before ten?”

  “Don’t be cross with me.” she murmured. “The painting was coming out so well that I didn’t have the nerve to disturb you.”

  By the time we reached the depot, the bus had already left. For a while, we stood there looking at each other. Now what? The big question glimmered in our eyes. There was the sky above, the earth below and the night was dark.

  If I were alone, I would have slept on the verandah of a shop or under a tree. What about Suraiyya? She read my predicament in my eyes and asked, “How much time will it take to reach Bhavali by foot?”

  “Now?”

  “It’s just eleven. We will reach there in a couple of hours merrily chatting as we go along,” she said adding, “We’ve walked together many a time on moonlit nights. Let’s enjoy the moonless night today.”

  It was not a bad suggestion. Besides, what option did we have? We started marching hand in hand. In my other hand, I held the torch, which lit up the path ahead.

  There were hills, bushes and unknown trees on both sides. Wherever the torchlight fell, everything sprang to life. Sometimes, when the dry branches of a tree lit up, it appeared eerie. At times, the rocks on the hills assumed ghastly shapes. The roar of a wild animal piercing through the chirping of the crickets sent shivers down our spine.


  To complicate things still further, our torch betrayed us. Of course, its cells had appeared weak when we started from the bus depot. However, we didn’t expect it to ditch us in the middle of nowhere.

  We were plunged in complete darkness. Now the ferocity of the night descended on us. We could not even see our hands. Though Suraiyya was nearby, I had the sensation that she was not present.

  I pulled her closer slipping my hand around her waist. We could neither go ahead nor go back from here. There were neither hills, nor trees, neither rocks nor the path. We were standing somewhere in the midst of an ocean of darkness, our hearts hopping with fear.

  “Suraiyya!” My lips parted in the stillness of the night, “It seems we will have to spend the night here.”

  “What do you mean by here?”

  Yeah, how could we spend the night where nothing was visible? We could not sleep in the middle of the road where we stood at the time. If a truck happened to pass, we would perish here unsung, though so far no vehicle had passed from either direction.