The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel (12 page)

A
nd so, without the Chinese to worry about for the moment, our only immediate problem was that the two gun-boats were sinking quickly beneath our feet. This was solved by all of us vacating said gun-boats and gathering together on the larger of the two onion-boats. One of the Pakistani henchmen stayed on the smaller onion-boat, and soon we had separated ourselves from the Pakistani ships and were floating alone with the onions and the other things that float on the Arabian Seas.

So now we will simply wait for Netaji’s boat, I said happily, and then we will take our leave and you fine Pakistanis can transport yourselves back to your biryani-ovens and kabaab-grills.

Yes, said Yoosuf, it is not such a bad result.

How long do you think it will take for Netaji to come for us, I asked Bhatkoo.

Bhatkoo was quiet, and he was simply staring at the Haji Ali darga as if in contemplation or making a wish for something.

Ay Bhatkoo, I shouted, answer.

Netaji is not coming, he said without shifting his gaze from the red and green lights of the mosque-like dome on the Haji-Ali island.

I was going to shout some more, but Shamoo began to speak up, and so I listened first as I prepared to shout and perhaps even continue with the slapping of faces.

Actually Netaji had made a triple-deal, said Shamoo.

Yes, said Bhatkoo, and so the gun-boats were never supposed to be sunk.

He said not to tell you because of your simplistic Gandhian tendencies, said Bhatkoo.

And the lack of trust so far, said Shamoo.

Who is the third party, said Iqbal.

Indian government of course, said Bhatkoo.

Who else will buy five thousand kilos of guns and bombs, said Shamoo.

And who else would Netaji sell weapons to, said Bhatkoo.

Netaji is a patriot as you know, said Shamoo.

My brain was hurting from too many brainwaves and too many secret plans being exposed in the darkness.

So we were supposed to bring the gun-boats in to the shore, said Iqbal, and then Netaji would have the guns loaded onto trucks and sold to the Indian government?

No no of course not, said Shamoo, where to get so many trucks and truck drivers?

Yes, said Bhatkoo, the government is to simply come here and take over the gun-boats directly.

But how? I asked.

Via Coast Guard and Navy, said Bhatkoo.

Joint operation, said Shamoo.

Yes, said Bhatkoo, Netaji has already made the arrangements and the contacts.

Okay fine, I said, so instead of Netaji picking us up it will be the Coast Guard or Navy in a bigger boat. No problem. As long as they drop us off on land so I can go home soon to my dear wife. No problem.

Maybe one small problem, said Shamoo softly as if he was scared of more slaps.

What, I said.

What, said Iqbal.

The Coast Guard and Navy will take us to land, said Shamoo, but we will have to be arrested of course.

What, I shouted.

No, said Iqbal.

And Yoosuf and Veeru looked very worried at this point, and I was happy that the henchman on the other boat was not following the conversation, otherwise the drama would have gotten out of hand.

It is just for public opinion and newspaper coverage, said Bhatkoo, and so there is no need to worry.

Yes, said Shamoo, because Netaji has many government contacts that will see to it that we are freed after some weeks or months.

After the media attention has gone down, said Bhatkoo.

We will have our photographs in
Mumbai Mirror
and other such fine newspapers, said Shamoo with a smile, and maybe they will make a movie about us later.

Oh yes, said Bhatkoo, this plan of arrest and jail is the other reason why Netaji told us to keep this part of the plan secret from you both.

Yes, said Shamoo, he thought you might not be agreeable.

Just then I felt some motion that was different from the regular rocking of the gentle Arabian Seas. After wondering for one minute about it, I realized the cause as I saw the lights of Haji Ali move farther away from us. The cause of the feeling of motion was the actual physical motion of the onion boat on which we were stationed. I looked at Yoosuf, who had stepped up to the wheelhouse and was operating the radar or some other marine object.

Feel free to sleep for some time, he said, I will wake you when we arrive in Pakistan.

A
t first, all of us Indians voiced protest and made threats of suicide and murder and other terrible things, but since we had no weapons and these Pakistanis at least had some mutton-choppers and one unloaded AK47, most of the threats were useless as devices of negotiation. But then, after we got tired of shouting and begging and crying, I thought about the situation and realized that perhaps it was not so bad. Probably sailing to Pakistan is a better short-term plan than appearing in
Mumbai Mirror
in my black kurta-pajama and being implicated in either terrorism or onion-theft, both of which carried penalty of death.

Of course, my sweet wife would be quite angry in both cases, but at least if I telephone her from Pakistan she cannot give me any physical beating. If I am interred at Arthur Road Jail in Mumbai, then the wife can definitely come to visit me and beat me quite badly inside the jail, where beatings from wives are tolerated for thirty minutes per day.

I was not sure how the visa situation would work out in Pakistani territory, but since I was not carrying my passport, there would be no place to stamp the visa anyway, so it was pointless to worry about it. And so finally I just took Yoosuf’s advice and lay down and put my head on a bag of onions and went to sleep for the night.

I awoke some hours later due to massive commotion and the sounds of some kind of loud engines and what-not. I climbed up outside of the onion-hatch, but immediately I had to shield my eyes from the massive winds that blew in my face. When I managed to make my eyes into tiny slits so I could see the cause of the winds, I was surprised to see a massive helicopter with protruding weaponry sitting on the deck of the large onion-ship. Some men and women in uniforms were standing on the deck near the helicopter, and they obviously had command of the situation due to their advanced weaponry and fashionable military-type uniforms.

At first I thought the Chinese had found us, but these people did not look like the Chinese gymnasts that win gold medals at the Olympics, and they were definitely not Indians, so I was not sure what to think. It appeared that Yoosuf and Iqbal were engaged in very serious conversations with them, and I watched as two of the military-type women came towards me and just smiled little bit and then went to the onion-hatch as if to check for something.

One of the women came back up and shouted something in a language that was not Hindi and not Urdu and not English. It may have been Chinese, because I do not know Chinese, but since these people did not look like Chinese, I guessed that it was not Chinese. It did not matter, I thought, because with all that weaponry and what-not, it was obvious that they were there to kill us.

As I prepared once more to die, the military-type people said some other things to Yoosuf and Iqbal, and then they simply got back into their helicopter and increased the speed of the rotors, which lifted the helicopter up. They flew away after that, and I was left there in confusion.

Israelis, said Iqbal to me.

Israelis, said Yoosuf.

What, I said as I wondered if Netaji had made a quadruple deal. After all, Israel is also a great ally of India, and we are always doing some kind of business with them.

Yes, said Iqbal, they had apparently heard about Netaji’s plan to sell weapons to the Indian government, and they wanted to intercept the gun-boats and sink them.

And so, said Yoosuf, when we told them how the gun-boats were already sunk, they were quite happy and they flew off.

But why do they want the guns to be sunk, I said.

Because Israel has just moved to the number one ranking as a supplier of arms and ammunition to India, said Iqbal, and so they do not want any side deals going on that could cause India to buy less arms from them. It is a simple case of supply and demand.

Now that I had already got a sufficient understanding of supply and demand mechanics, I understood this issue, and so I nodded my head and looked around and smiled when I noticed that the sun was slowly coming up over the horizon. As I enjoyed the slow breeze and increasing warmth, another brainwave hit me.

You said that Israel has only just recently become number one arms supplier to India, I said, and so which country was the previous number one supplier?

Iqbal said some answer, but I could not hear it, because from off to the side of our boat came a massive sound of waves and more commotion of engines and what-not, and a large black metallic object rose up out of the sea like a black python made of metal. Only when the full thing was above the water surface did I recognize it to be a submarine, and then when I saw the famous-looking red and white and blue flag painted on the side next to the letters USA, I realized which country was recently overtaken by Israel as India’s number one arms supplier.

T
he Americans I think wanted the same thing as the Israelis, but at least I could understand their speech. The big boss man had a very loud and clear voice, and those of us that knew English had no problems with hearing him. He and his men boarded our ship, but he did not point any guns at us. At first I wondered why that was the case. After all, if they think we have five thousand kilos of guns and bombs with us, then at least they would show some force to terrorize us into handing over said weapons. But soon I understood why they were so casual.

We’ve been watching you guys, said the big boss American man, and it don’t seem like you have what we’re looking for.

You are looking for the thousands of kilos of guns and bombs that is to be delivered to the Indian government, I said in a loud voice that I hoped would prove that I was the big boss Indian man on our onion-boats.

Yeah, said the boss man, and you guys sure don’t have it.

No, I said, surely not.

What did you tell the Israelis? he asked.

The truth, I said, which is what we tell everyone on account of us being Gandhians.

Ah yes Gandhi, he said with a smile, that tiny guy did a lot of major shit.

Yes, I said, major.

Kicked the goddamn Brits out of your country didn’t he, said the American.

Oh yes, I said, kicked them with extreme prejudice but nonviolently of course.

The American seemed to find this funny, and he looked at a few of his soldiers and they all laughed. I noticed that some of his soldiers were women also, and I wondered at the wondrousness of the American and Israeli militaries that they have so many women stationed in foreign countries. Of course, our Indian forces have women as well, but not so many yet I think. Most of our deadliest women are still in the homes beating up their husbands and other enemies. At this I laughed in order to hide my sadness and fear at my wife’s reaction when I telephone her from Pakistan. Perhaps she will leave me, I thought, and join the military and go to some far-off place to inflict damage on the enemies of India.

What’s with all these goddamn onions man, shouted one of the American soldiers who had been sent to the cargo hatches to verify that there were indeed no guns or bombs on board.

I explained the situation to the American boss man, and he simply shook his head and I think he was not sure whether to laugh or cry, and I wondered if he was missing his wife as well or if she was with him in the foreign lands and seas that he was stationed in. I was feeling quite friendly suddenly, and so I asked him precisely this question.

That’s classified information little buddy, he said with some seriousness but not real seriousness because behind him some of his soldiers laughed.

Oh she is on a secret mission is it, I asked with great excitement.

Don’t ask don’t tell, said one of the soldiers.

Hell yeah baby, said another soldier who hit the other soldier on the palm like how those basketball players do it and now even our cricket players are doing it.

Remember yourself soldier, said the boss man and this time he was serious and his men and women kept quiet and stood at attention.

With the laughter and the jokes finished, and also the onion inspection complete, it seemed like the Americans had no more use for our time. And so they went back into their big black submarine, and the big metal thing smoothly went back under the Arabian Seas, and things were calm and quiet again like all these were normal and unsurprising events on the high seas. I was still little bit sleepy, but I thought I might as well stay awake because, based on the trajectory of events, I thought it was obvious that some other nation’s air or sea vehicle would appear suddenly and ask us questions or make jokes or maybe simply kill us.

At least no one is actually after the onions, said Veeru with relief.

Yes, said Yoosuf, and soon we will be out of Indian waterspace and heading for Pakistani waterspace.

And just then, as per my prediction, we heard a loud horn. When we turned in the direction of the horn, we saw a massive ship that was flying the beautiful tricolor flag of the Indian nation. I immediately thought to salute and sing the National Anthem, but then I thought perhaps the Pakistanis would be offended, and so I just stood up and faced the flag and sang the National Anthem in my mind.

My mental singing was soon interrupted by some commotion behind me. Yoosuf and Veeru were frantically looking at some charts and some instruments like GPS or GSM or GQ, and Iqbal was just standing there and holding the steering wheel of the ship as if in expectation of some instructions to turn. The instructions came, and Iqbal turned, and then suddenly Yoosuf shouted something to Veeru, and Veeru shouted something to the henchman on the other onion boat, and they immediately switched off the boat engines and dropped the anchors into the waters.

At this I was surprised. I expected that perhaps we will try to escape by leaving Indian waterspace and entering Pakistani waterspace or something like that, and so I asked Yoosuf.

No, he said, Pakistani waterspace could be even more dangerous than Indian waterspace.

And so, said Veeru, we have affixed ourselves in the small part of the waterspace that is classified as international waterspace.

Iqbal smiled at me as if he agreed that this was a good idea, and so I eased my mind and finished the National Anthem by singing the last few lines out loud.

By then, as if timed to the end of my National Anthem recital, the big Indian Navy boat was close enough for someone in a white uniform to shout at us through one of those cone-shaped devices that magnifies the shouting and makes it sound like an Indian robot is shouting at you.

This is the Indian Navy, said the Indian robot.

Okay, I shouted back in my normal shouting voice.

You will hand over the weapons cargo, said the Indian robot.

No weapons, I shouted, only onions.

At hearing this, the robot put down his cone-machine and started to talk to some other man in a white uniform but with a different hat. Soon the robot-voice came back to face us and shouted once more.

You will hand over the onions cargo, said the Indian robot.

Come and take it then, shouted Yoosuf before I could say anything.

I was surprised that Yoosuf, the man who was prepared to fight the Chinese warlords with nothing but some mutton-choppers, would simply hand over the onions to the Indian government.

The robot-shouter did some more covert conversing with his captain, and from the looks of it, the captain was making some kind of fuss and pointing at an imaginary line in the water. Soon the robot-voice came back to us and shouted again.

Come closer, he shouted.

No, said Yoosuf with a smile, you come and take the onions if you want it.

See, said Veeru to me, they know they cannot board our vessel because we are in international waters and they do not have jurisdiction here.

I stared at Veeru and I must say I had a great respect for his understanding of international maritime law. These Pakistanis were not so stupid as the Indian newspapers say, and I felt proud to be associated with such smart men.

Yoosuf smiled at me and patted me on the shoulder.

You should be proud of your government, he said, because they are good and observant about such global rules.

Yes, said Veeru, because since no one is looking they could just come on board and squash us like how I have squashed those Pakistani mountain rats when they steal a chicken kabaab from my kabaab-grill.

Yes, I said with pride, the Indian government is efficient and smooth and honest and wondrous.

Iqbal made a sound that appeared to be one of mockery, but I ignored it. Then some more sounds of mockery came, and I could see that even Yoosuf and Veeru were laughing at my unbiased display of love and respect for my great government.

Let us not get carried away, said Yoosuf, and instead focus on the task at hand.

Yes, said Iqbal, because these Navy buggers will not break the rules, but they may bend them by forcing us to move over into Indian waters, and then they will board us with extreme prejudice.

Ay, shouted the Navy bugger, come on over here now you stupid buggers. You cannot refuse a direct order from the Indian Navy.

No, shouted Veeru, you come here.

And this went on for some time until the sun moved higher in the sky and everyone went back inside their shaded accommodations areas for some refreshments and maybe some gargling with salt water to re-energize the vocal cords for more shouting between international waterspace and Indian waterspace. As we sat inside the onion-boat’s one large room, I was quite happy with the situation, but it seemed that Yoosuf and Iqbal, the two answer-men, were not so pleased with this political stalemate that we had engineered through the smartness of these Pakistanis.

The problem, said Iqbal, is they will have more supplies and hence can simply wait for us to run out of food and water.

And then, said Yoosuf, we will be forced to appeal to them to save us from starvation.

The thought of starvation at first made me hungry, but then I received a massive brainwave.

No, I said, we will win because we are Gandhians.

Iqbal looked at me like I had swallowed some salt water and gone mad, and then I think he understood.

Hunger strike, said Iqbal with a smile.

Hunger strike, I said.

And now our Gandhian adventures had truly reached Himalayan proportions.