Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

“I’m still not clear about it.”

  “I’ll give you a week more to consider. But don’t you forget, I’ve only two options left: Marriage or...”

  She did not need to complete the sentence. Iqbal was an intelligent boy. If he did not marry her, she would go back to her old profession.

  Chapter 27

  Iqbal smiled as he scanned the headlines of the newspaper before leaving for college in the morning. The pound had started stumbling down in the London market. The impact of the London stock exchange would be felt in the speculative markets throughout the world. The price of gold was to shoot up. A profit of Rs.3,00,000 was assured by the sale of three hundred jackets during the night.

  Textbooks in one hand, he was locking the flat, when he heard the sound of Kiran's slippers approaching. As he glanced at her, she stopped at a distance attired in a long maxi. “Phone for you,” she said and turned back.

  Iqbal followed her like a mutt following a queen. “Whose is it?”

  “Big chief’s.”

  He came to the bedroom, put down the books on the double bed and lifted the receiver. Kiran watched him from the kitchen as she prepared breakfast.

  “Did you like the car?”

  DK's words ringing through the receiver made Iqbal realize that he had not yet thanked the big chief for having gifted him a car worth Rs.80,000.

  “Yes…It's a nice car.”

  “Hope you aren’t saying that just out of courtesy.”

  “It's really fabulous.”

  “A Rolls Royce belonging to a former Maharaja has come for sale. A Rolls Royce is considered one of the best cars in the world. If you don't like that Mercedes, we can go in the evening and have a look at the model.”

  Iqbal's chest swelled with pride but he gave a sarcastic reply: “DK, a Rolls Royce suits kings, not guards.”

  There was nothing to laugh about and yet, as was his habit, DK laughed out aloud. He then came to the point saying humbly, “If my guard permits, I’d like to withdraw some money.”

  “All that’s there is yours!”

  “No. Don't be under that illusion.” He corrected Iqbal and cautioned him too, “Whatever is there belongs to all of us, all the partners. Moreover, you have been appointed the treasurer. No partner can withdraw even a single paisa without your permission. This was decided unanimously in the last meeting and I’m no exception.”

  Iqbal was not the godfather. However, he felt like the maharaja of all uncrowned kings. It appeared as if at the other end of the receiver, DK was standing with a begging bowl .

  “How much deposit do we have?”

  “Around thirty crore.”

  DK made some calculations in seconds and asked, “Has any of the partners withdrawn any amount recently?”

  “Singh urgently needed five lakh rupees.”

  “He had struck a property deal in Chandigarh. Perhaps he invested in it!” Now he placed his own demand. “I need fifty lakhs deposited into my Swiss account.”

  Iqbal's eyes popped out. His Dongri mentality came to the fore. For a person who had sold sweets and berries by the roadside and lifted pots of water for tenants living on the top floor of the Abbasi Manzil to earn a few coins, fifty lakhs was a staggering amount.

  He was about to ask – So much?! – when he stopped in hius tracks. He was no more selling sweets, but dealing in gold and rolling in millions. The earth was not going to slip away from beneath the feet if a few bundles of bank notes were removed. Besides, the boss had to make the payment for the contraband goods brought from other countries. Sometimes, the transaction was done through his Swiss account.

  “I’ll instruct the bankers,” he said over the phone.

  “Thanks, what are your plans for the coming Sunday?”

  “I’ve to prepare for the final examinations.”

  “Work hard all week,” commanded DK. Before putting down the receiver, he added sweetly, “but, don't forget to spend Sunday evening with me at the race course.”

  Iqbal kept staring at the handset even after the call was ended. “Has a flower blossomed in it?” Kiran commented, emerging out of the kitchen, wiping her hands with a napkin.

  “Kiran,” he said patting his own back, putting down the receiver. “DK is a strange fellow. He can withdraw as much as he wishes by instructing the bankers over the phone. And yet, he won't touch it without my permission.”

  “Is that why you are puffed up like a frog?”

  “Shouldn't I be?”

  “DK isn’t as simple as you think.”

  “Who told you?”

  “My experience,” she said and added, “He doesn’t have a neck.”

  “What?” Iqbal was amused.

  “Have you ever seen his neck?”

  Iqbal was surprised. It was revealing for him to notice that Kiran observed minutely the men who entered her life.

  “You mean, a man without a neck is considered to be a shrewd person?” Asked Iqbal.

  “To be frank, he is a swine.”

  “And what about the person who has a long neck?”

  “A fool.”

  “What does my neck indicate?”

  “That’s what I fail to grasp,” confessed Kiran, mischief lurking behind her eyes, “Your neck isn’t long, yet you are an idiot.”

  “How come?”

  Because you have failed to realize that you are being manipulated by the top guns for their personal gains… Instead of expressing the truth, Kiran put both her arms around his waist and asked judiciously, “Tell me honestly, would you have fallen in love if you were a wise man?”

  He nodded saying, “Now I know the reason for my idiocy. I was really a wise fellow till I fell in love with you.”

  “Very clever. Now tell me, are you determined to go to college today without breakfast?”

  “Heavens… I completely forgot.” Reminded suddenly, he pushed aside Kiran, lifted the books from the double bed and rushed out.

  When he reached downstairs, his feet stopped near the car. It took some moments to suppress the urge to impress the students by going to college in the expensive Mercedes.

  He hailed a taxi passing by and proceeded towards Chowpatty where Bhavan's college was. It was just a fifteen minute drive. He spent it pondering over Kiran's proposal.

  Kiran wanted to marry him. He too was dreaming of starting life afresh with her. Yet, why was something pricking the unknown recess of his heart? Why was he not getting a clear sign from his computer brain? Was it because she thrived on being needed, while he despised crowds? Was it because men regarded her as easy prey? Was it the fear of society?

  Iqbal’s reputation was bound to get damaged by marrying a whore, whether she was from Kamathipura or from Altamount Road. His friends and acquaintances may not dare to say anything to his face, but they were sure to laugh behind his back.

  Worse, he would feel humiliated in front of those friends who had spent at least a night with Kiran. For example, would he not shrivel up if he had to confront DK or Singh with his ex-call girl wife?

  No.

  Iqbal cared two hoots for society. In fact, he had fallen in love knowing the truth. He loved Kiran sincerely, but his brain was still in his control. He was examining every aspect of the issue.

  He was neither a saint, nor a social worker, nor a social reformer on a mission to liberate a hooker. He wanted to make Kiran his wife because among all the girls he had come across until now, only she could understand his feelings. Moreover, her nature was in tune with his. Then what was that unknown fear?

  Did he suspect that Kiran, accustomed to sleep with a variety of men, would start hunting again in the concrete jungle because a single man could not satisfy her?

  No. He had full faith in himself and in Kiran too. He could confidently say that given an opportunity, Kiran would never look back at her past. Iqbal firmly believed that she would prove to be more loyal than the so-called Sitas and Hawwas.

  Was he afraid that he would not be able to give her happiness after m
arriage? To some extent this was true. There was no guarantee about Iqbal's life. Even he did not know where he would have his next meal. Nobody could guess when the police or the customs would trap him and put him behind bars.

  There was less likelihood of such an eventuality. He enjoyed the firm backing of DK. However, DK was no god. Else, Hamid would not have reached the gallows. Had Iqbal not tried the ploy, he would have been hanged.

  However, after thinking some more, he felt that this fear too was unfounded. Kiran knew everything about his life. Like Iqbal, she too was ready to marry him after knowing full well.

  Another fear could also be this! Iqbal was Muslim, while Kiran was Hindu. The very idea of marriage between persons of two different religions was enough to trigger off a chain of problems. The first would be, which matrimonial rites to follow - Hindu or Muslim? Would Kiran agree to change her religion? Would Iqbal be ready to marry her in an Arya Samaj temple?

  The answer to this question too was quite simple. Both were intelligent. If this problem cropped up, neither would Kiran have to become a Muslim nor Iqbal a Hindu. Both could go to the registrar's office and get wedded.

  Despite minutely shredding the issue of marriage and examining it under a microscope, he could not identify the needle that was pricking him inside. He was in no hurry either. Kiran had given him a week's time and today was just the second day. He had decided that he would marry Kiran if he failed to get the right answer until the last day.

  Iqbal's complications were unique, my problem was different. It had been two months since Suraiyya and I had sealed the issue. During these sixty days, I had doubled my income from Rs.500 to Rs.1000. For it, I had to do mule labour during the night.

  I had also arranged for a house, a miracle indeed. A friend of mine, who needed space for painting, had booked a small house in a new colony near the Santa Cruz railway station and he had been selected for the Rockefeller scholarship.

  Before he could start working in his new house, he had to go to America for a year. I met him with my problem. He was so glad that he thanked me as if I had done him a great favour.

  In fact, his problem was – if he kept the new house locked for a long time, any thug could break into it putting him in trouble. Moreover, if he gave it out on rent to a stranger, he may not vacate the apartment on his return and that would create a major problem for him.

  I got the keys of the virgin house. I had to pay only the society dues and the electricity charges, which together would amount to hardly two hundred rupees. Everything went off so smoothly that I doubted my good fortune.

  We were glad to be blessed – both of us belonged to the same religion, had the same mindset, parallel thoughts and a heart that loved open sky. If only there had not been an obstacle as big as the Great Wall of China between the two of us, we need not have even thought of taking such a harsh measure.

  I knew that the elders on both the sides of the fence would be upset by our decision. There would be great uproar. On my side, there would be fewer outbursts; but on her side, there would be no less than an explosion.

  People residing in slums always eye palaces – goes an old saying. Economically, I stood on a lower pedestal. I could not blame Suraiyya's elders for thinking that I had lured her for her wealth. Most rich parents are inclined to think that way.

  Those days, Bharat Dave, the late elder brother of a well-known dramatist Shailesh Dave, had fallen in love with a Muslim student (Nannu Sajan) of our college. I still shudder at the thought of the sky that had fallen on them after they got married secretly.

  I too was treading on the same path. Everything was decided when suddenly I got a brain wave. In fact, Suraiyya's original idea (getting married secretly and not letting anyone know about it till our final examinations were over) fitted well with my plan.

  “Suraiyya!” I told her the next day on the lawns of the art school, “I’ve a gut feeling, we are going to marry with grandeur without hurting our elders’ feelings.”

  “How?”

  “By using our secret marriage as a weapon.”

  She could not follow what I was suggesting. So, I explained, “We will get married but won’t make it public.”

  “Then?”

  “After the finals, you just tell your family that you want to marry the person of your choice…that’s me.”

  “You know that they won't agree.”

  “You should ask them the reason.”

  It would be difficult for her elders to give an honest reply, because they would not admit that they were rejecting the boy because he was poor.

  “And, suppose they admit…? ” Suraiyya asked.

  “You question them – have they approved the boy or his bank balance?”

  “They may reply that they had chosen the young man from London considering both the factors.”

  “Assert that for you he is a total stranger, while you know me since the last three and a half years.”

  This conversation was like digging a ditch with a fork, yet it was essential to carry out the rehearsal to ensure that everything went off well.

  “What if they still don't agree?”

  “Then play the trump card of love and assure them about my character. Ask them to verify my background.”

  “Should I say that though he is a Muslim, he neither offers namaaz nor observes fast during the Ramadan?” Giving a sarcastic twist to my serious train of thoughts, she added, “Or should I give them Dharmendra's address who initiated you into booze or declare that before being hooked to the bottle, an attempt was made in childhood to be smoker number one.”

  “Please stop picking on me!” I snubbed her. “I’m worried about our future and you are trying to be funny?”

  “Did I say anything wrong?”

  “I gave up drinking even the single peg that I used to take every night after quitting the films, to be precise, after meeting you,” I replied, quickly feeling stung. Now it was my turn to be sarcastic. “If you like the blue eyed boy from London, you need not criticise me.”

  Suraiyya sensed the insipid, dull, lifeless quality of my remark. It lacked something. Maybe a touch of spice. She deliberately smiled, looked into my eyes and articulated in a sharp voice, “Indeed, he was looking dashing in the photograph.” When this too had no effect on me, she added. “He is also loaded with money, owner of a five-star hotel in London. At least I won't have to cook after the marriage!”

  “You think you will have to cook in my house?”

  She was in a queer mood. “Provided you have something at home to cook!”

  “Even in jest, you do express the truth, Suraiyya!” Once again, I became serious. “You’re a painter, I’m a painter. It’s with much slogging and panting that the fire in an artist's hearth was lit. It's still not late. If you wish to marry him, hobnob with the rich and famous, I’ve no right to stop you.”

  “Won't you feel devastated?”

  True. I couldn’t contemplate life without her. She had become as necessary to me as painting – a terrifying notion. Yet I said, “I’ve only known sorrow from childhood. One more misfortune will not make any difference. At least, you will be happy.”

  “Aabid!” Her face suddenly turned violent, “I’m sorry to say that though you are so close, you are still miles away from me! How can you imagine that I’ll be happy without you?”

  “I want the bliss of both the worlds for you.”

  “Really?” Her voice had cracks. “If I loved wealth, I’d not have been sitting here with you in the public garden! Don't you forget that I’ve loved you more than my mother. I had not seen her face for three years and you are asking me to marry someone else! Aren’t you ashamed?”

  I realised my mistake. Still it took me more than fifteen minutes to pacify her. I came back to the main subject. “You must make every effort to make your family agree to our marriage. Yet if they stick to their guns, use our secret marriage as a weapon. Show them the Nikaah certificate. They will surrender.”

  Afte
r pondering over my suggestion for a while, Suraiyya raised a very pertinent question, “What if they agree even before disclosing the certificate?”

  “Then what?”

  “Nikaah again?”

  This thought had not occurred to me. If they agreed to our marriage and if they found out that we were already married, it would surely create bitterness; and if we didn't let them know about our secret, then we would have to perform the Nikaah ceremony for a second time, which too would be unethical. “We will quietly go for a civil marriage,” I suggested a safe path. Suraiyya agreed to it.

  For our impending wedding, I needed a lawyer, not a bearded Muslim priest. The next day, through a friend’s contact, I arrived at a lawyer's office. He agreed, for a small fee, to solemnize our marriage at the registrar's office in the Old Customs House. We chose Friday for the occasion.

  I had bought a new terylene pant and a handloom shirt for that auspicious day. A shining pair of leather boots replaced my canvas shoes with a hole. I stood before the full-size mirror in the cupboard, all ready.

  My mother, who was sewing a new quilt near the window, commented, “All dressed up like a bridegroom! Who’s getting married?”