Sufi - The Invisible Man of The Underworld

by Aabid Surti

  For instance, if DK wants to import gold worth one crore rupees, he would only say, “Please send one khokha.” These two code words are in vogue even today.

  After the formalities were over, DK took out two slips of paper from his kurta pocket. Across, the sheikh took out his pocket diary. Both tallied their dates. They especially checked just how many khokhas of gold had been imported and on which dates.

  The question of either side committing a mistake did not arise. There was no question of betrayal either. In this respect, both of them were thoroughbred, else four months’ accounts would not have been settled in just four minutes without fretting. DK tore away the account slips and threw them into the waste-paper basket, then said, “Now, tell me Sheikh Saab, what would you like to see this time?”

  “I’ve heard that striptease has been introduced here just like in Paris.”

  “Right.”

  “How is it?”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  That was true. He was never interested in girls who undressed in public. Of course, he had no scruples if a woman bared herself in private before him. He loved nudity in the bedroom.

  “I’ve heard that the striptease in the newly opened Blue Nile Hotel on Marine Lines is worth watching.”

  “I’ll have my dinner there,” said the sheikh and coming back to the business he observed, “It seems the future of our trade won’t be as bright as before!”

  “It will be bleak for at least four to six months,” DK guessed. “I think this compulsory retirement is necessary.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Rest for a few months and then plan something new.”

  “You have partners…”

  “That partnership is over now.”

  Iqbal got a bit disturbed because of two reasons. Firstly, DK had not thought it necessary to introduce him as a partner to the Sheikh. This fact pinched him constantly. Then, DK made this explosive announcement about partnership. Yet Iqbal remained quiet. The final jolt was yet to come.

  Their conversation over, DK got up. “My car will be there in the parking lot. You can go out for dinner at your convenience.” Iqbal too got up with him. Both started for the door. The sheikh picked a grape from the fruit bowl and commented, “Hope the car won’t be empty!”

  “Oh!” DK stopped and so did Iqbal. “I’d totally forgotten. Whom should I send?”

  “Who had accompanied me to the Elephanta caves last time?”

  DK had over a dozen call girls on his list. It was a bit difficult for him to remember such small details like which girl accompanied which client to which place. He pretended to rack his memory when the Sheikh reminded, “She had a colourful bird in a golden cage in her balcony.”

  “Kiran!”

  “The same.”

  Iqbal was shaken, though there was no reason to be depressed after parting. Of course the flame had died out long since, but they still respected each other in a tough, shrewd way.

  Chapter 32

  “The son of a gun chose the girl who’s most expensive.” Going down by the lift with Iqbal, DK muttered, “The rate of the dollar has crashed, but her charges have shot up. Now she demands five thousand rupees a night.”

  Both came to the car, crossing the hotel lobby. DK occupied the driver’s seat while Iqbal sat next to him.

  “Have you thought about the future?” DK broached a new topic, starting the car.

  Iqbal replied in the negative.

  “In fact, you need not.”

  He listened quietly.

  “You haven’t yet tasted blood. Sometimes I wonder…how you manage to dive into the dirty pond and stay untouched like a lotus?”

  “I’ll have to do something.”

  “No. You will get more than enough from the partnership, I mean you can spend your whole life doing nothing.”

  “True, but an industrious person can’t sit idle.” Iqbal suddenly realized that instead of heading towards Marine Drive, the car was going in the opposite direction.

  “You are absolutely right,” confirmed DK, keeping the pace of the car steady. “I’d read somewhere – idleness is the holiday of fools. Tell me, do you want to open a shop? Set up a factory? Speak up buddy, I’ll back you to the hilt. It’s not a bad idea either to start a new business.”

  Before replying, Iqbal came to the main issue, “My share…how many crores will I get?”

  As was his habit, DK started laughing. The car continued to move forward. “How many crores?” he said, and continued laughing again for a while. “Iqbal, my friend, I do not mind admitting that my wisdom has lost its edge. I…I’ve failed miserably to see beneath that boyish exterior of yours. But I’m not the solitary nitwit. Many a veteran official too have been fooled by your innocent face.”

  Iqbal got confused. As he could not understand what DK was trying to drive at, he exclaimed, “Fooled?”

  “The lotus has lost its luster. You are dreaming of crores.”

  He suddenly realized the truth.

  “I’m just asking for the share I deserve,” he said firmly.

  “Where were you all these days?” DK was still in a light mood. “I’d asked you time and again to withdraw a few millions and blow it. Didn’t I? But you were firm in your resolve, never touched more than five thousand rupees a month. Today when the treasury’s floor is swept clean…”

  Iqbal was stunned. DK had indeed told him playfully to withdraw a few millions and blow them as he pleased. However, he had never told him that like all the other partners, he too should withdraw big amounts every month and invest in some other enterprise.

  Initially, when he was in charge, the partners used to borrow lakhs of rupees on one pretext or another, as loan. (At least that is what he thought). He was under the illusion that partnership meant sharing of the profit equally and that his share was being kept aside.

  “You are disappointed,” remarked DK driving the car while stealthily observing the changes taking place on his face.

  He looked at DK. Natwarlal, the greatest swindler of the last century looked like a pygmy relative to him.

  “A dead elephant is worth more than a living one,” DK continued, “we have deposited enough in your account to help you form your own network, if you so desire.”

  At this moment, Iqbal was interested neither in ethical nor in unethical business. He had shown more loyalty than a dog. He had given a big chunk of the best period of his life, youth, besides blood and sweat. What did he get in return?

  Trickery.

  Treachery.

  And, a stab in the back.

  He was left high and dry. He looked transfixed. His cheeks were burning. He was battling an enormous urge to scream. He felt DK had slaughtered him without using a knife. He had butchered him tenderly just as a goat is sacrificed on Bakri Idd. He had no right to complain either. On top of that he was being chided now.

  “How much is there?” he asked, controlling his fragmented thoughts.

  “Ten lakhs in cash and Al Kabir.” That was the name of the steam launch of the gang. “On top of that, the car worth eighty thousand and the apartment in the Sagar Darshan are yours to keep.”

  This truncated share demolished yet another of Iqbal’s illusions. He had never been gifted the car and the apartment; both belonged to the partnership and were handed to him for official use and like a sucker he had thought that the boss had presented him as an expression of goodwill. This time he became enraged at his own stupidity. It was now too late to regret. The horse had bolted out of the stable.

  He came back to his senses as the car stopped near Usha Sadan. Kiran still lived there on the third floor.

  “Iqbal!” DK implored, remaining seated in his place, “If I go up she will rob me. If you ask, she will be reasonable. Try to strike a deal for three thousand rupees.”

  Iqbal looked straight into his eyes and shot back with finality, “In this short life, I’ve committed many crimes knowingly or unknowingly; but I’ve never been a pi
mp.”

  DK once again threw up his head and exploded with a peel of laughter. A great liberating laugh, out like the head of a steam too long confined.

  “Sufi!” I interrupted, “I can understand that you were entitled to your share and you should have got at least ten crore rupees; but when your requirement was limited to five thousand a month, what difference does it make if you get it or not?”

  “Much.”

  “How?”

  “I wanted to switch over to a decent business,” he said. “I’d my own plans. I wanted to buy a factory that manufactured drums. It required an investment of forty lakhs. And...”

  I butted in again, “…how can a person riveted in trafficking think of quitting?”

  “Anyone living under constant pressure gets such an idea sometime or the other. Take the case of the dacoits of the Chambal ravines. Why did they surrender before Jayprakash Narayan the moment they got an opportunity? Were they not minting money by robbing fat people?”

  Satisfied that I found his reply convincing, he proceeded further, “Aabidbhai, our community is economically backward. That’s why most of our youth have remained educationally poor. Where there is no education, there is hunger. My utmost desire was to eradicate unemployment and hunger by promoting knowledge. If I’d have started a couple of small scale industries, I’d have offered jobs to several young men and prevented them from following the destructive path of easy money.”

  These were not Sufi’s words, it was his wretched childhood which was saying this. It was the unemployment and hunger he had faced during his school days that was shrieking; it was his desire to walk on the path of virtue that was yelling.

  Sufi is a Muslim but not an orthodox one. When he offers namaaz, he follows every word. (Most Muslims do not know the meaning of the verses from the holy Quran recited while praying.) He often astounds friends with the breadth and depth of knowledge he appears to have about Islam.

  He believes that the Allah would be happier if orphan children are helped rather than spending money on rituals and congregations. Because of his bold views, sometimes the Mullahs lambast him verbally.

  Islam, which is closer to socialism, imposes zakaat on Muslims. In simple terms, it is a tax at two and a half per cent of the income. Muslims are required to set aside this amount for the welfare of the poor and the needy.

  The other tax is called khums. There is a difference of opinion about it. According to Sufi, it was introduced at the dawn of Islam and because of jihads. During the time of Prophet Mohammed and his Caliphs, there used to be holy wars and the soldiers of the victorious army used to rob the enemies of their possessions.

  This practice was prevalent even before the advent of Islam, but no religion had imposed tax on it because no religion needed it. Islam was desperate for funds. Why?

  Sufi explained further – The neo-Muslims and the soldiers of Islam were impoverished. Many of them did not even have swords. ‘The new tax on maale-ganimat (the booty), khums especially benefited the foot soldiers.

  It is necessary to note that in the battlefield, the victorious army would get weapons and animals like camels and horses rather than cash because no soldier carried unnecessary cash on him while going to war.

  Whatever was plundered was presented before the chief of the army. The value of the seized goods was assessed and eighty per cent of its value was distributed among the soldiers while the chief retained the remaining twenty per cent. This twenty per cent of the loot comprising weapons and beasts were used to arm the new recruits of the Islamic army.

  Some of the present-day religious leaders have not only imposed this Khums (tax) on the Muslims, but they also insist that a part of it should go into their pocket.

  Sufi remembers one particular incident when a mullah of our community (Khoja Shia) committed the blunder of demanding Khums from him. He asked a simple question: “Maulana (the learned one), what’s the meaning of Khums?”

  “The holy Quran has prescribed for zakaat as well as khums.” The mullah thought that a dunce was sitting across him so he explained it further, “The latter is on maale-ganimat.”

  “What’s maal-e-ganimat?”

  “The spoils of war collected by the soldiers of holy war.”

  “I’ve neither participated in a war nor have I robbed a soldier. How can Khums apply to me?” Sufi quipped.

  The mullah got a bit perplexed. Perhaps, no one had ever argued before. “Brother, khums is levied on every Muslim.”

  “How?”

  “That’s Allah’s order.”

  “On which page of the holy Quran is that written?”

  The question created a knot in the mullah’s stomach. Sufi liked it. Whenever someone tried to beguile him, he would make the other person realize his foolishness by quoting his own words, instead of telling him directly that he was an idiot. This is his way of having fun.

  Before the mullah could think of a reply, Sufi asked a totally new question, “Who’s entitled to receive khums?”

  “The poor, orphans, aalims etc.”

  The Arabic word aalim means the learned one, Here it applied to the mullah, who is supposed to be knowledgeable in matters of religion.

  “Maulana!” Sufi asked again, “Is it also written in the Holy Quran that a learned person is entitled to receive khums?”

  “Listen brother,” the mullah got irritated. “If you want to offer khums, OK, else it’s your wish. You will be held guilty in the court of the Almighty.”

  “Did I say that I won’t offer? I just want to understand before giving it....”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How much do you expect by way of Khums?”

  The question raised the mullah’s hopes. He lowered his tone and said, “My entire year’s household expenses.”

  “How much does it comes to?”

  “More than eight thousand a month.” He went on to explain, “A person who has five children and a wife, would need at least that much.”

  “I too have that many members in my family.” Sufi was responsible for the upkeep of almost the same number of family members. “And yet, my household expense is much less than yours.”

  “That depends on one’s lifestyle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We are not miserly as far as our food habits are concerned,” the Mullah explained. The children need a double-egg omelet each for their breakfast. Besides, they also need jelly, butter and juice. It is necessary to give them wholesome food for their physical development. Moreover, we never cook our food in vegetable or hydrogenated oil. We use only pure ghee.”

  Sufi listened patiently. He then asked enigmatically with a touch of humour, “Can Prophet Mohammed be called an aalim?”

  The mullah was provoked by this unexpected question. “You should have the common sense to know that he was the father of all aalims.”

  “What was his diet?”

  As the mullah glared at him with cinemascope eyes, he reminded him of an incident from Mohammed’s life. One day, when the Prophet sat down for supper, his daughter placed before him three plates. One contained salt, the other milk and the third one had bread in it.

  Surprised, the Prophet asked her. “You have placed three dishes. What is the occasion? Don’t you know that there shouldn’t be more than two in my supper?” Before the daughter could reply, he picked up the bowl containing milk, gave it to her and ate bread with salt.

  Sufi did not have to explain that the mullah sitting across him had not been worthy of being called an aalim, a learned man.

  When Sufi begins to talk, he talks for hours. He picks up a point to begin with. To prove that point, he goes on adding new topics one after the other.

  In the process, sometimes I get so engrossed that I forget the main issue. Take for instance today’s discussion. The dialogue had begun with his share of ten crore rupees in the partnership that he deserved. Then it veered towards the subject of zakaat, khums, and then the poor mullah.

&
nbsp; “I’m not a social worker,” he came back on track. “I’ve never dreamt of becoming a leader. I consider it my duty to help if I can be of some help to someone.”

  “Can you give an example?”

  “Of what?”

  “An example of someone whom you helped who prospered in life.”

  As usual, he baulked. “Don’t ask me, ask the neighbourhood.”

  “But, why not you?”

  “Islam says that when you do charity, your left hand shouldn’t know what your right hand does.”

  He was right. In fact, he had never bragged about his charity, which was in lakhs. He had never uttered a word about it so far.

  From what I could gather from other sources, Sufi had spent over ten lakh by now, set aside in lieu of religious tax zakaat, to give financial assistance to the poor of the Khoja community, for the education of underprivileged students and institutions providing employment to widows.

  He had also donated two lakh rupees to the Jain Vidyalaya at Prarthana Samaj.

  He does not forget leprosy patients on the occasion of Eid. He sends a money order of twenty-five rupees to each of the patients in his list. (Earlier, he used to send seventy-five). In all, three thousand rupees are thus distributed.