Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  “Every day, steam launches take day-trippers from Madras to these islands. I’ve appointed the boatman of one of these launches for our job. Only he’ll know the ‘drop’ spot of the consignment on the island. He’ll bring the goods on his return trip. From there it would not be difficult to transport it to Bombay by truck.”

  Iqbal's other stratagem was to smuggle goods by hoodwinking the customs officials at Madras.

  The customs department was put on alert not only at the Bombay port but also at Madras, Calicut and Calcutta. It had become difficult for the cargo ships, which were legally entering the Indian ports with goods meant for import, to hide contraband goods. These ships were often raided, inspected and their captains subjected to interrogation.

  For instance, if the customs officials detect over a dozen boxes of wrist watches on the ship, the captain would have to provide a satisfactory explanation. He had to furnish an inventory of goods listing the names of the companies to which the cargo belonged. If there was no mention of the wrist watches in the inventory then these would be confiscated. The captain too would then land in trouble.

  DK's gang smuggled not just gold, but also whiskey, wrist watches, transistor radios, Japanese fabrics and other such goods which were in demand in the Indian market. These contraband goods, like the gold biscuits, used to come sometimes in the Arab launches, or in cargo ships. After the customs stepped up the vigil, bringing smuggled goods by cargo ships had become almost impossible.

  Iqbal realised that the customs officials inspected only those cargo ships that brought goods imported by the Indian firms. But if a ship anchors at an Indian port for re-fueling or other such valid reasons, our customs department would not inspect its goods because these have nothing to do with our country.

  DK gave a green signal to this grand design as well. Iqbal took the plunge with gusto as if he like Faust had made a pact with the devil. He, who had so far grossed millions making Bombay his center, now spent most of his time outside Maharashtra. Sometimes he was needed in Calcutta and sometimes in Porbandar. Sometimes Kanyakumari and at times, Jagannath Puri.

  Often, he himself used to drive the truck loaded with contraband goods and come to Bombay journeying hundreds of miles.

  Iqbal was riding a tiger. His frontiers of operation had expanded, while mine had shrunk. The thought floating around in my head was where to go and what to do? My college life having come to an end, my mother as well as other members of the family started looking at me with hope, like Indian farmers gazing at the sky for rain.

  It was now difficult for me to get a job in Air India or Weavers' Service Center's art department. I did not have a diploma. In government establishments, they first look at your credentials then at your talent.

  After my separation from Suraiyya, I had lost most of my jobs. My cartoon features in 'Ramada' monthly and 'Parag' (Hindi) were discontinued; but my comic strip 'Dhabbuji' was still going strong in the 'Dharmayug' weekly. I used to get fifteen rupees per strip. My monthly income was sixty rupees.

  Gradually, all my family members reluctantly accepted reality. They had given up hope. Not only that, the elders felt certain that they would have to bear my load throughout life, though I was earning enough to meet my pocket expenses. At times, I also used to contribute some money as and when I earned something extra. However, nobody was satisfied with that. For them, I was a freeloader.

  Where was that worthy son who would leave for office every morning with a leather briefcase in hand and a tie around the neck and at the end of the month obediently hand over the pay packet to the mother? Here was a good for nothing son who chipped in merely a hundred rupees once in a blue moon.

  I stopped contributing even that after I got a place for my studio. I was a painter and was determined to go ahead in life as a painter. That was not easy. (Maintaining a white elephant would have been easier.) Again, I was compelled to raise my income. Cartooning and writing I accepted as my source of income, though I was least interested in them.

  It is easier to find bread in Bombay than to find a roof in a lifetime. The place I had set up as my studio was a ten feet by ten feet room. This cubicle was on the ground floor of the same Habib Hospital in which I had spent a month recovering from typhoid a few years ago.

  My joy knew no bounds. I neatly placed all my art materials in that room. The material included a three-legged easel, boxes of paints, paper rolls, brushes and blank canvases.

  I used to begin my work enthusiastically every morning only to find with time that knowingly or unknowingly my spirited ideas were dissipating into despair and frustration. Whenever I tried to think something beautiful, something positive, sinister looking skeletons would pop up from nowhere and start dancing. I started drawing an imaginary heaven and on completing the painting, I would realize that the canvas I had painted depicted hell.

  Why…but why was it happening? Who held the key to my thoughts? I was constantly asking myself these questions. This riddle had dogged me ever since I embarked on this journey. Who was it that turned Suraiyya's gorgeous face into one repulsive with pockmarks?

  The title of my second canvas was Tears of Blood. The painting depicted blood oozing from the eyes of a labourer. I thought for a long time looking at the canvas as if it was a still image from a horror film.

  It was my nature, and still is, to reflect on the day's events before going to bed every night. One evening, I thought about it seriously and on not finding an answer I fell asleep.

  That night, I had a strange dream. I saw that a huge ant the size of an adult was trying to climb a mountain carrying a hillock on its head, panting all the way up. Suddenly, its legs slipped and it tumbled, the hillock crushing it to death. At the same time, a piece of white cloud floated down from the sky and covered it.

  I awoke in the morning with the riveting dream of the crushed body of the ant sharply etched on my mind. With my first cup of tea, I tried to interpret it and derive some symbolic meaning. The ant represented me and the effort to climb with a load on its head symbolized my struggle. It would not be surprising if the end of the dream suggested that because of my pessimism, the struggle may result in a tragedy.

  Whether right or wrong, I was satisfied by this analysis; and yet, when I left for the studio, the corpse of the ant wearing the white cloud as shroud appeared, walking side by side with me.

  After a while, when I entered my room in the hospital, I was taken aback. Someone covered in a white sheet lay on the floor near the opposite wall. I presumed it to be the crushed body of the ant. This image had stuck like a splinter in my thought. I couldn’t get rid of it. All the same I managed to bring my wild imagination to a halt. The reality set in – Who could be under the sheet, a dozing man or a grisly corpse? I slowly pulled the sheet and felt as if I had pulled the carpet from beneath my feet. There really was a corpse before me.

  That day the realisation dawned on me that the place given to me to use free of charge was the extra room of the hospital. This room lay vacant most of the time, until a patient passed away. Sometimes, no one would expire for weeks and sometimes more then one patient would drop dead in a single day.

  The dead body would be removed from the ward and shifted to my room. It would remain there until the relatives of the departed did not arrive to claim it. I suffered from profound claustrophobia, yet, I continued painting.

  The question of finding another place did not arise. As I have already said, it takes a lifetime to find a roof in this city.

  I started hectic preparations in this same mortuary for my first painting exhibition. My determination was gritty. I was working round the clock. Sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of a corpse or two. With each passing day, the vibes of the room influenced me a little more.

  All the canvases that I painted here had the stench of dead bodies. The subject and colours of the paintings were pessimistic. Particularly, the dark colours would have an immediate impact on the onlooker; his expression would change as if he had had vomit
for dinner.

  When the show opened, the critics were full of praise for my so-called new experiment. Commercially it was a total flop. I learnt my first lesson.

  The combination of certain colours can have a devastating effect. No one would want to buy a painting with repulsive colours and hang it on the wall. Of course, the choice of subject also plays an important role. However, it is also a fact that though an ordinary art lover does not understand abstract art, he still buys a canvas. The main reason for it is that a combination of the right colours touches a chord somewhere within.

  I was to learn a lesson or two from each of my flop shows. I was to plunge deeper into financial crisis after every misfired exhibition. Finally, like a losing gambler, I was to play the final game.

  When I was neck-deep into debt after the first disastrous show, Iqbal was sitting on a gold mine. Bank notes were raining hard and were deposited with the bankers. From there the money was transferred to the secret accounts in Switzerland, Dubai and Hong Kong. That was DK’s job.

  Now, Iqbal did not have even the time to keep track of the accounts. His responsibility was to experiment and find new techniques to earn money. He was making such fast progress that all the four partners of the gang were stupefied.

  DK had recalled the responsibility of maintaining the accounts from Iqbal and given him a free rein like an unharnessed racehorse. To quote Kiran’s words, he had swollen up like a proud frog. But, he did not know that his rein was in DK’s hand and his head was in the tiger’s mouth. In fact, he was like a fugitive caught in his own trap.

  A lame horse is shot dead. DK was not going to shoot him. But, he was to make him lame at the right time. Iqbal would realise it after tumbling down to starting point in the game of snakes and ladders.

  For whom did he do all this? Why did he do it? His requirements were a reflection of his mentality and his mentality was that of Dongri. Drop by drop, penny by penny, one becomes wealthy. If one can walk, one does not catch a bus and if one can go by a bus, one does not hire a taxi. The expensive car that DK had gifted him was gathering dust in the compound of the Sagar Darshan building.

  Sufi prefers to go on foot or uses a bus even today. If an old friend proposes to him that he start a lucrative illicit business in partnership with him, Sufi asks the same old question even today – for whom? And, occasionally in reply, he either quotes the holy Quran or the Gita.

  “Neither this body belongs to me nor do I belong to this body. This is made of fire, water, air, earth and sky. In the end, it will merge with these elements. But, the soul is immortal. Then, what is a human being? Why does he lust for money?”

  All these did not matter when he was young and the blood was hot. His entire attention was on how to do something outstanding, something groundbreaking in the field of smuggling.

  First, he removed the risk in crossing by introducing the technique of dumping the bag of gold biscuits in the sea. In the process, he had also saved hours that were wasted during the crossing.

  He had suggested the idea of safely moving the bags lying under the sea from one place to another. Moreover, his idea of rescuing the gang member Hamid from the gallows too had proved to be a masterstroke.

  Like an energetic young manager who brings about beneficial changes in the working of an institution, Iqbal had introduced several measures after joining DK’s gang. The most important among these was the elimination of the middleman in gold smuggling. This enabled the gang to earn lakhs of rupees more on every transaction.

  (During our interview, Sufi uses the word ‘company’ in place of gang. According to him, all the partners of the enterprise were thorough gentlemen. They were out and out businessmen and which businessman does not cheat the government today?)

  While Iqbal’s idea of employing a helicopter had proved a hundred per cent successful, the other idea of taking the delivery of contraband goods from the ships by hoodwinking the customs officials in Madras did not last long.

  The last time, a dubious Chinese ship coming from Seychelles and heading for Hong Kong had entered the Madras port on the pretext that there was some problem in its boiler room. Iqbal was present there to take the delivery. He was sitting in the dock’s Udipi canteen sipping tea with his colleague Dagdu. Both of them were merrily chatting, having dosas for breakfast. Earlier, they had each stuffed themselves with a plate of idlis.

  “Boss!” croaked Dagdu, opening his mouth wide to take a bite of the dosa, “Why is our market jittery since the past few weeks?”

  “You won’t understand.”

  “Am I that dumb? You explain, I’ll understand,” he urged Iqbal, taking a bite.

  “How can I explain, when I myself don’t know the cause?” Iqbal said. However, he thought it was necessary to throw some light on the subject. “The price of gold is going to increase in the world market. That means it will soar higher than the price in our country. It’s not yet clear as to what would be its impact; and yet, my gut feeling says that it’s going to shake the very foundation of our business. I won’t be surprised if it breaks the backbone of our jewelers. In short our big chief’s days are numbered.”

  Dagdu had just opened his mouth wide to take the last bite of the dosa when his jaws froze. The upper jaw remained up, the lower jaw remained down, with a gaping hole in the middle. His eyes were fixed on a car that had just entered the dock.

  “Boss!” He put back the dosa on the plate. He could utter just one word, “Yama!”

  The car came and stopped near the canteen. The broad shouldered and well-built customs officer from Bombay, Khan, alighted from the car. Despite his dark sunglasses, Dagdu had identified him.

  Dagdu was about to escape when Iqbal caught him by the wrist. He had half risen from his seat but sat down again. Iqbal got up.

  “Hello, Mr Khan!” Iqbal walked forward a few steps with a smile to shake hands with him. “It’s a pleasure seeing you.”

  Khan also feigned friendship and shook hands. “I’m pleased too.”

  The cat and mouse game started once again. Both knew the real reason for each other’s presence. Khan had come down to Madras following Iqbal’s trail. He had not anticipated that they would run into each other at the wrong time. He wanted to catch Iqbal red-handed, which was not possible now.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Sir?” Iqbal asked.

  Khan looked over his shoulders. “That guy sitting over there shivering like a dry leaf, is he your colleague Dagdu?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Has he seen a ghost?”

  “He saw you coming and got shit scared,” Iqbal said casually blocking his way. “I tried to convince him that nobody can touch us without proof. But, this nitwit won’t believe...”

  “He knows that I don’t need proof to arrest him.” Saying which, he shoved Iqbal aside and headed for Dagdu.

  According to the information Khan had received, Iqbal had become active in Madras, but he was unaware of the modus operandi the wizard had adopted. He was really surprised by what he learnt from his phone conversation with the Madras customs officials. According to them, it was true that Iqbal was in Madras, but he was into the transport business.

  Fools! Khan muttered to himself. If the guy was in the transport business it meant smuggling.

  Iqbal took one long stride and caught up with Khan. By this time Dagdu had relaxed a bit, yet he was shuddering inside. That apprehension was still visible on his face.

  Khan sat opposite him. There was a table between them. Iqbal sat on a third chair between the two of them. Some flies had started hovering over the half-eaten dosa kept on the plate. Khan’s gaze was fixed on Dagdu’s face.

  “Sir!” Iqbal said drawing his attention, “The dosa here is really appetizing.”

  “One can imagine, seeing these flies,” he said caustically and asked for a cup of tea.

  Iqbal beckoned a lungi-clad boy and placed an order for two cups of tea and a glass of lemon juice. Looking at Khan, he asked, “Sir, may I ask a personal que
stion?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How many years of service do you have left?”

  “Are you worried?”

  “No, no, Sir!” he smiled, “I asked you in a different context. I just wanted to tell you that a senior officer of the navy recently retired. Can you believe he would get only Rs.400 as his monthly pension?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has four children, a wife and old parents. How will he be able to manage in just Rs.400? Moreover, he has been asked to vacate his house.”

  “What’s new?”

  “Will your honesty too go six feet under on your retirement?”

  “No,” he explained, “I’ll be going to my village Jaawra after retirement where I have my ancestral home. It’s not difficult to live there on Rs. 400 a month. Besides, by the time an official retires, his children would have grown up and started earning. So, I don’t have to look after them. On the contrary, if need be, they will be supporting me.”