The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel (10 page)

T
hat evening I stopped by my home to meet my wife, and I told her that tonight I’ll be staying at those same colleagues’ house in order to complete the last bit of the business matter. My wife was very suspicious, but she did not say anything and simply gave me a look that said if you are up to any funny business, you will be beaten like a dog in the street. Of course, by funny business she was not thinking of funny business with another woman or anything like that. She knows me well enough that such trust is not an issue, especially after the recent resurgence of our bedroom activities. But the trust is not so much there that I will not get involved in something that may later turn out to be quite silly.

In my pre-Gandhian days I had done many silly things which I will not repeat here, but now those days are gone and I am doing important and sensible things. I almost wanted to tell my sweet wife what I was about to engineer on the high seas, but I thought better of it and quickly left the house before any such information was forthcoming.

We travelled to the Haji Ali area quite early so that we could inspect our boats and make sure we were aware of the mechanics of boat-manipulation. Iqbal and I were to command the leading boat, and Bhatkoo and Shamoo were to be on the second boat. The boats would be attached together with a long and thick rope so that they would not drift far apart. At first I was little bit worried about how Iqbal and myself could handle a big boat with two-thousand-five-hundred kilos of onions, but when I saw the actual boats I understood.

The lead boat was much smaller, and now I understood that it was to make it easier for us to get close to the terrorist lead boat and make the formalities of the exchange in a formal manner. The second boat was quite a monstrous thing, and I was happy that I would not be in command of it. Both boats smelled sweet and fine with onions, and at first I worried that maybe people around us will notice and hijack us before we have even left the mainland. But then I shook my head and decided not to confuse myself with too many different possibilities and to focus only on the task at hand.

I was made to wear a black kurta with black pajamas and black rubber chappals. Iqbal was dressed in a fine black sherwani, and he looked like a truly great and powerful Muslim leader at that point, what with his finely shaped beard and thin Aurangzeb-like face. But then I remembered that Aurangzeb had imprisoned his father and killed all his brothers so that there would be no dispute about who gets to be the king, and so I removed all such historical references from my mind.

Bhatkoo and Shamoo were also dressed in black, but their clothes were little bit older and dirtier, perhaps part of a strategy to make it clear who the leaders were.

We boarded our respective boats, and immediately I was thankful that I had not eaten any special bhaji that morning. I quickly realized that the negative side of the small boat was that it moved this way and that way very easily even in calm seas.

This is why I wanted to come here early, said Netaji, so you get used to standing on this boat as it rocks from side to side.

Yes, said Bhatkoo, very important.

Correct, said Netaji, they must think you are a master of the high Arabian Seas.

Or they will not respect you, said Shamoo.

And without respect, said Bhatkoo, all could be lost.

What nonsense, I said, we do not respect the terrorists, but still we are doing the transaction, and so respect is not a prerequisite for the smooth flow of the onions-for-weapons exchange.

Then you will not do any talking, said Netaji, only Iqbal will speak directly with the terrorists.

What, I said, but Iqbal and I are joint leaders so we must speak jointly.

Now I was worried about how I would conduct my end of the questioning and psychological manipulation if I was not allowed to speak to the terrorists. But how could I lie to Netaji and say that I respect the terrorists when their work of terror is not respectable? By now I had told enough lies in the past two days of the Gandhian adventures, but how much to lie? Somewhere there has to be a limit, and to say I respect anti-India terrorists is too much to stomach while standing on this boat as it moves from side to side.

There must be mutual respect, said Netaji, if the transaction is to go smoothly. Remember, you have a higher purpose of peace and reduction of weapons and hence reduction of violence.

And also, said Iqbal, these people we will encounter are respectable enough and we should be formal and polite with them.

I stared up at Iqbal’s Aurangzeb-like face and shook my head not as if to say no but as if to clear the head of any confusion or hearing problems. I could not believe that my brother Iqbal was saying such things. I was disgusted, and luckily it was dark in the area or else people would have seen the disgust on my face. But I could not hide my disgust at this last statement, and so I mentioned it out loud.

I am disgusted that you say these people are respectable enough, I said as I spat on the ground and almost hit Bhatkoo’s foot with the spit, when in actuality they are enemies of India and in fact enemies of any country that loves democracy and freedom and peacefulness.

So you think the Pakistani people do not love democracy and freedom and peacefulness? asked Iqbal.

Does not look like it, I said with a sulky voice.

Raj, said Iqbal, you are my brother in life.

I almost fell down from name-shock, because even though I rarely call Iqbal by name, he has never in my memory called me by name. This is because he does not speak as much as I do in general, and when he speaks, there is never any doubt he is addressing me, and even if there is doubt sometimes, he still speaks to me without addressing me by name.

What is it, I said with the same sulky voice but actually I was feeling quite soft and a little bit worried as to the graphic nature of this conversation.

Pakistan is also a democracy, said Iqbal softly, even though it may not be blessed with efficient government and honest politicians like how Mother India is blessed.

Perhaps, I said.

And Pakistanis also love freedom and peacefulness, said Iqbal, and maybe they even love freedom and peacefulness more than we Indians do because they have less of both things in daily life.

Now this hit me in the soft spot that controlled my sulky and disrespectful behavior, and so I began to see his point. It is true that the counter-intuitiveness and manipulation inherent in one’s own psychology makes you appreciate the fine things that you do not get to appreciate on a daily basis, just like Iqbal loves the Bombay-duck more because he does not eat it as much as he would like.

Like the Bombay-duck, I said with a crack in my voice that came from the emotion that Iqbal’s fine words had given rise to in me.

Yes, said Iqbal.

And he came up to me and gave me a tight hug and we were like two brothers who had crossed the Himalayas together and conquered the great question of how to respect people that the media and movies tells you are evil and must be killed and disrespected. The Gandhian spirit was truly alive in us, and now we would use that spirit to propel this boat of onions past the great old Haji Ali darga and towards our destiny on the high Arabian Seas.

S
o for the next one or two or three hours we inspected the boats and took instruction from Netaji and Bhatkoo and Shamoo on how to operate the extra-quiet electric motor on the lead boat and how to use the light-systems and other basic sea-faring mechanisms. Netaji was quite knowledgeable about boats and water and what-not, and I became even more impressed with this man whom I could no longer call mad, but maybe that was only because I too had made the descent into same madness, and from my new vantage point it all looked sane.

Ah, said Netaji, I wish I was coming with you.

Why don’t you come then, I said.

Then who will operate the third boat, he said with a smile, that will pick up all four of you once the Pakistanis have gone and you have commenced the sinking procedure on the gun-boats?

I felt silly for asking, especially since we had gone over the plan again and again and committed every stage of planning to memory so that when execution occurs it is smooth and efficient like Indian Parliamentary Process.

Sorry, I said.

No issue, said Netaji, I was only saying because it has been some time since I have done boating, and I used to do it every day when I roamed free in the wild islands of Japan in the 1950s and 1960s.

So you have not done many overseas transactions like this, I said, and by overseas I mean like how we will be over the seas soon for this transaction.

No, said Netaji with a laugh, most of my onion transactions with bordering countries are done via truck and bullock cart, and then the liaisons load up their own boats and take the onions back home. But now of course there is stricter monitoring of all the potential boat-landings around Mumbai, so these buggers do not want to come all the way in to land.

So this is a pioneering feat we are accomplishing, I said proudly.

Yes indeed, said Netaji, and once you are successful you both will become the leaders of the Onion Delivery Department of the Hydroponic Foreign Policy Institute.

Means what, I said.

Means you will conduct such operations on a regular basis of course, said Netaji as if it was an obvious thing.

But I thought this would be a one-time thing to prove ourselves and then the work would be done and life would be like normal, I said while looking at Iqbal who once again was dodging my gaze.

But see, said Netaji, once you have proved yourself it would mean you are trustworthy and skilled and therefore highly useful for such procedures and operations.

Okay fine I see, I said, and so it would only be logical for us to continue to do such operations until that point where we are no longer trustworthy or skilled.

Or until you are dead, said Shamoo with a smirk and everyone turned to look at him in surprise.

Means what, I said in fear and even some anger.

Sorry, said Shamoo, I mean dead after many many years and of natural peaceful causes of course.

Okay I see, I said in relief, natural death of course will come because all of us cannot live forever like Netaji.

At this statement there was a sudden quietness even though I meant it like how you make a joke by saying something that is not really a joke but you try and say it in a way that makes it sound like a joke.

It is time, said Netaji immediately.

Yes yes, said Bhatkoo.

Let us mount up and embark, said Shamoo.

We said namaste to Netaji and then took to our lead boat. Carefully I started the electric motor while Iqbal took over the wheel in the wheel-room. And then quietly, in the dark waters of the Arabian Sea, we moved towards what I believed would be the finale of our Gandhian adventures.

T
he finale did not come as soon as expected, and we sat upon our dark boats and bounced up and down on the Arabian Sea for a long time. I could hear Bhatkoo and Shamoo talking on their big boat, but I could not see them, and I could not completely make out what they were saying. The air was nice and salty and moist like the sea itself, and that way I had no problem sitting there because it was a nice atmosphere and even the bouncing did not bother me so much anymore. I felt like a master of the high Arabian Seas already, and I was confident I would command the respect of these Pakistanis when the time of the formalities arrived.

You will have their respect, said Iqbal wisely, because now you have respect for them.

I did not question the recent infusement of Iqbal’s tongue with such inspirational speech because I too was feeling inspired by the atmosphere of the dark gentle waves and the beautiful Haji Ali darga in the distance and the smell of salt and moisture and other things that float in the water around this greatest city of Mumbai. I felt that whatever happened from then on would be fine and acceptable because we had followed our pursuit of Gandhian principles to their logical extreme, and perhaps now even left logic behind and so are following only to the extreme. This analysis struck me as quite incisive but yet funny, and I was about to inform Iqbal of it when we saw the flashing lights in the distance.

Bhatkoo was the official light-code reader, but due to good planning, all of us had memorized the lighting codes, and I could immediately tell that these lights were indeed belonging to the Pakistanis.

I stood up and began to move about the boat due to tension in my stomach and legs and heart, but the steady hand of Iqbal, my brother in life, steadied me like he had steadied me many times before, and I stood still and awaited our Gandhian encounter with the Pakistanis. As the lights came closer, I picked up the big flashlight and handed it to Iqbal, who was the official light-code-dispatcher just like Bhatkoo was the official light-code-reader.

The Pakistanis changed their light-code, which was the sign that they had seen our light-code and were zooming in to our location in the dark seas. Soon we could see the outlines of two big boats highlighted against the blue-black sky of the Mumbai night. It was a sight that I will never forget: the boats were big and dark and of wooden frames with big posts and dark-looking sails that flip-flapped in the warm moist wind of the Arabian Seas. At the head of the lead boat stood two Pakistanis. They were tall Pathani men in their black Pathani suits and one of them had a big flowing beard and I could not see the other one’s face.

The bearded Pakistani raised his hand and I raised my hand to wave to him, but Iqbal stopped me.

He is not waving to you, said Iqbal, he is instructing his men to cut their motor so his boat does not bash into our boat and cause an accident.

But just then the bearded Pakistani waved to me, and I felt like I was master of the high seas after all.

See, I told Iqbal, they already respect me as is evidenced by the return of my wave.

But then we realized that both of us were wrong when we saw the other terrorist gun-boat approaching us silently from the other side. It was the other boat that this bearded man was waving to, and I was suddenly sure that it was the signal to attack with great immediacy and extreme prejudice. Only then did I think of the silliness of meeting terrorists in the dark when large amounts of scarce commodities were to be exchanged for large amounts of weapons, with the weapons starting off in the possession of the terrorists. Only then did I become certain that it was only logical for the terrorists to simply kill us and then go back to Pakistan with the onions and also the weapons. And then I thought why would they even bring the weapons when they could simply fill their boats with thousands of kilos of live terrorists and perhaps even launch a fresh attack on Mumbai.

I told all this to Iqbal very quickly as we watched the second boat in fear.

Not to worry, he said, we must put forth our trust and these people will prove themselves trustworthy.

But I could tell that even Iqbal, the answer-man, was little bit at a loss for concrete and stable answers as our doom seemed to be getting closer and closer with each gentle wave. I stared at the Haji Ali darga in the distance, and I silently made a vow that I’ll not do anything again without full knowledge and approval of my dear wife if only I can be saved from this one last silly thing I have engineered myself into doing.

Now the first boat was almost touching our boat, and the bearded Pakistani put one leg on our boat and threw a thick Pakistani rope from his boat to ours, binding the two boats together so we cannot escape. The Pakistani now looked at us, and only then did I see that he looked a little bit nervous.

Greetings, he said, I am Yoosuf.

As we had been instructed by Netaji, Iqbal was to be the first to speak due to concern for the extremists’ extreme religious sensibilities.

Salaam Alaykum, Iqbal said with a respectful gesture that looked like he had practiced it before.

Alaykum Salaam, said Yoosuf with a similarly graceful gesture.

Hello hello, I said in what I thought was a respectful tone, but due to my own nervousness my voice was actually very loud and squeaky, like when a squirrel is choking on a samosa.

Yoosuf looked at me and smiled in happiness.

You seem to be a funny bugger, he said, like Veeru who is my brother in life.

Yoosuf looked past my shoulder and then I turned to see a somewhat bulbous Pakistani on the second boat. He was smiling and bobbing his head in time to the boat-bobbing, and it was quite comical and I could not help but smile.

Yes yes I am Veeru, he said with a smile.

But you are Hindu, I blurted out without thinking.

Iqbal poked me hard now, but what was said had been said, and now we had to deal with the aftermath.

Yoosuf laughed once more.

Yes, he said, Veeru is certainly Hindu.

Yes yes, said Veeru, my entire mother’s side of the family is from Indian Punjab.

How funny, I said, because the mother’s side of Iqbal’s family is from Pakistani Punjab.

At this everyone laughed a little bit, and it was like how we say the laddoo has been split up and shared to make peace via sharing of sweetmeats.

How nice, I said, because we were told you are extremists who will only deal with Muslims and so in fact I was even hesitant to speak up.

Now Yoosuf pulled on his beard and took on a very serious and quite scary expression.

Make no mistake, he said, we are extremists.

And actually I live in constant fear for my life, said Veeru, as they could chop me up and discard me anytime without warning due to their extremist nature.

But you said he was your brother in life, I said in protest but in that same squeaky loud voice. You would kill your own brother in life?

All the more proof of our extremism, said Yoosuf.

And suddenly all the laughter and lightness of the bobbing had turned into seriousness and heaviness, and now the bobbing felt like I was being shaken by the gods that had undoubtedly taken old Haji Ali’s life in the first place. Again my fear of death came to the forefront, and I looked around to see if Bhatkoo and Shamoo were close by, but their boat was quite far, although still attached to ours by rope. According to instructions that Netaji claimed to have received directly from the terrorist cell phone, our second boat was only to approach after the initial formalities had been formalized.

Then time for chit-chat is over, said Iqbal in a loud and commanding voice that I was surprised to hear, and let us do the exchange and move on with our respective pursuits in life.

And in afterlife, I said without thinking.

At this careless statement of mine Yoosuf and Veeru looked at each other across our boats, and although it was dark and I could not be sure, I really thought they both looked scared for one minute.

Where are the onions? shouted Veeru from behind me.

And now when I heard that Veeru’s voice had taken on a similar squeaky tone like that of a Pakistani mountain rat choking on a kabaab, I began to get some confidence like how when you are facing death you are able to call upon senses and sensibilities that otherwise do not come out of your being. And so I regained my composure and replied in a loud and deep voice that surprised everyone including me.

They are in the boats of course, I said, where else do you think? In our pockets? Five thousand kilos of onions we will put in our pockets or what? Now deliver us the weapons without delay. We have many other things to do tonight and we cannot just sit here on the high seas and waste time with you squeaky mountain rats.

At this even Yoosuf seemed to hesitate, but I could tell he was a confident man and leader of other less-confident men, and so his hesitation, if any, did not last long.

Come on board, he said, but leave your weapons behind.

At this I looked at Iqbal and Iqbal looked at me.

Yes fine, I said quickly so as not to dwell on the topic and expose the fact that we had no weapons of note.

But since we did not remove any weapons from our persons, it would appear as if we had not left our weapons behind. And so as we stepped on board Yoosuf’s boat, he quickly patted our backs and sides as if to check for secret weapons. When he was bending down, I could see one more of his men standing on his boat, and that man certainly had something that could only be an AK47 assault rifle, the gun of choice for terrorists due to long-term contracts with the Russian manufacturers of said weapons. I thought back to the long-time alliance of India and Russia, and for a moment I lamented the fact that our peace-loving government had not negotiated a special rate for AK47s for our people as well so that we would be armed when doing such dangerous exchanges.

No weapons? said Yoosuf in surprise while looking at his henchman and then Veeru and then me and then his henchman again.

It must be a trap, shouted Veeru from across the boats, their boats must be set with timer bombs to kill us once the exchange is made. We were told to take extreme care when dealing with these dangerous Indian extremists, and now we are finished, Yoosuf. I told you not to be so trusting. Now they will kill us and my wife will be alone and my children will grow up without a father.

Now I lost my cool as well because of the darkness and the bobbing and the shouting and everything, and so I began yelling also.

No, I shouted, it is you buggers who have set the trap with your AK47s and beards, and now it is my wife who will live as a widow and it is only because of our mistake of trusting you and not bringing our weapons.

I was about to go on and on, but Iqbal raised his hand to stop me. He gave me a look that said to be quiet, and then he turned to Yoosuf, who seemed quite calm at this point, possibly because he had ownership of all known guns and bombs and beards except for Iqbal’s small pointy beard.

We have no weapons, said Iqbal, because we have come here to do an honorable exchange that will further the goals of both our groups.

Yoosuf nodded and looked at his henchman and then passed Veeru a look similar to the calming look that Iqbal had delivered to me.

No need for shouting and high tension, said Yoosuf, and let us make this exchange and you can go about your business and we will return to Pakistan with the onions.

Now that things were calming down, I began to remember our secondary goal of psychological manipulation to try and find out if this exchange would truly reduce violence or simply reduce Indian onion supply.

But without these guns, I said, how will you conduct your activities of terrorism?

At this Yoosuf seemed surprised and he looked across at Veeru as if asking his Pakistani Hindu brother for clarification. But instead I decided to clarify.

If you are giving us five thousand kilos of guns and bullets and bombs and detonators, I said, then you must have many more kilos remaining in Pakistan or else you will not be able to conduct terror attacks and border strikes except by use of mountain goats and large stones and maybe spears.

Yoosuf was very quiet, and I wondered if he was about to have us put to death for such probing questions. Finally he looked at me and spoke.

But we are not terrorists, he said.

At this I looked at Iqbal and could tell that even Iqbal was little taken aback. Then I understood Yoosuf’s meaning, and I felt very proud of myself for understanding, because it meant that I had truly enabled myself to look at the world from the view and mindset of my enemy. Of course from his point of view he is not a terrorist. He is simply a freedom fighter or a dealer of justice or simply a working-class man whose job is to shoot Indians and blow up things.

I understand, I said proudly, you do not call your killing activities terrorism due to your having a different viewpoint from that of us.

No, said Yoosuf, our activities do not involve any killing of people.

Then I remembered that Iqbal and Netaji had mentioned that these buggers are a new group and so perhaps they have not accomplished their first mass killings or even small-scale killings.

I understand, I said, but you will be killing at some point.