The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel (5 page)

W
e stood in silence for some time, and then I took Iqbal to task.

Why must you open your small little mouth, you fool? I said to him. If you had not mentioned onion problem, then we would right now be eating onion bhajias and learning the truth about how to avoid wrinkles by eliminating worry from life.

Iqbal kept his mouth shut. He was staring at the dark windows of the building from which we had been expelled.

What are you staring at, you stupid bugger? I said to Iqbal.

Iqbal did not respond. Instead of responding, he continued to stare at the windows. At one window, to be precise. Presently Iqbal turned to me and smiled.

Look, he said.

I don’t want to look at anything, I said, because I am angry and because I am hungry.

Now look, I tell you, said Iqbal.

His voice was loud, which is uncommon for Iqbal, and so I looked at where he was pointing. I could now see why he was smiling.

In the one dark window, I could see one dark figure. The figure was holding a torch. I mean a torch that has batteries, not the one with flames. The torch was moving, and it seemed to be a signal. Of course, I could not understand this signal, so I looked at Iqbal, my brother in life, the answer-man.

I think it is Bhatkoo, said Iqbal.

So what? I said. Bhatkoo is the one who grabbed us and threw us from that place.

I think he is saying to go to the door and he will let us back into the building, said Iqbal.

But why? I do not want to be pushed and pulled and grabbed again, I said.

Then don’t say stupid things and don’t laugh at the plants, said Iqbal. He looked angry. Sometimes I feel you might be a silly bugger, he said.

I became worried. Iqbal does not say such things. He must be very angry.

Sorry, I said.

No problem, said Iqbal. I am sorry for implying that you might be a stupid bugger.

Silly, I said.

What? said Iqbal.

The implication was for silly bugger, I said. Implying that I am a stupid bugger is a totally different matter.

Okay, yes, I see, said Iqbal.

With all this silliness, we had forgotten about Bhatkoo and the torch. We were reminded when Bhatkoo used the torch to make noises on the window glass.

Fine, I said, this matter is about truth, not silliness, so let us re-enter the dark building.

Fine, said Iqbal. You go first.

Why me? I said.

Because you got us removed from there, so it is your duty.

This seemed logical, and although I wanted to argue, I felt that time was of absolute value here. So I stood up straight and went to the door of the building and pushed it. The door was locked and pushing did not accomplish anything. I looked at Iqbal. He indicated that I should wait.

I waited, and presently the door made a clicking sound and opened and I entered the dim room. Iqbal followed me, and the door closed behind him. We stood in the semi-darkness and looked around. Bhatkoo was behind us, and he turned on the torch.

Okay now, said Bhatkoo, I will take you back inside, but you must be courteous towards the plants.

Okay, I said, but tell me one thing.

What is it, said Bhatkoo.

Why the politeness is necessary to plants? You all are madmen or what? I asked.

Then I heard a clucking sound from Iqbal, and I realized that asking people if they are madmen is something that falls within the category of impolite. Luckily Bhatkoo was not offended.

See, said Bhatkoo, Netaji spent many years in hiding with no company except for the plants. As a result, he is very friendly with plant and trees and such creatures. So please show some respect for this.

Okay, I said, will do.

I did not say much more, but in my mind I said many things. One thing was that Netaji must definitely be a madman even if he really is Netaji. After all, only madmen become so friendly with vegetative creatures. Of course, I did not voice such opinions.

We followed Bhatkoo down into the interiors of the building where it became darker and darker. Then we stopped at a large metallic door, at which point Bhatkoo switched off the torch.

What are you doing, I shouted.

Quiet, said Bhatkoo.

Yes, quiet, said Iqbal. Remember what I told you.

Okay, I said. And I became quiet. But internally I was worried.

The metallic door opened with a metallic sound and from inside came a bright white light almost as bright as the sun himself. I shouted in pain, but then quickly shut up from fear of impoliteness.

We entered through the door, and I opened my eyes to see a large room, so large that I could not see any walls. The lights hanging down from the ceiling were so bright that I could not see any ceiling. I averted my eyes in the downward direction, afraid that I would not be able to see any floor either, but thankfully the floor was clearly visible, and so I stepped onto it.

You impolite buggers are back I see, came a voice. It was the voice of Netaji.

I looked up and saw Netaji standing in my presence. He was smiling, and did not look angry anymore. I was thankful of this. I did not want to be subjected to more grabbing.

Hello Netaji, said Iqbal.

Yes, hello. Welcome to my hydroponic farm, he said. Then he gestured with his hand in a sweeping manner like someone displaying something to someone else, which was actually quite appropriate for the situation.

The room was indeed quite a sight. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of tables with glass tops and glass bottoms, each table holding different-different plants. The roots of the plants were plainly visible, all twisted and curly, but clean and without dirt. And the reason for lack of dirt seemed to be lack of soil. In fact the glass tables were glass tanks, and the glass tops were some kind of special holders that held the plants upright in the glass tanks. Of course, the lights were bright, even brighter than when the sun tries to shine through the Mumbai smog.

Oh my god, I said, what wondrousness.

I looked at Iqbal. He too was struck by wonder.

Netaji smiled, and Bhatkoo clapped.

Yes, I said, these are truly wondrous plants.

Louder, said Netaji.

What? I said.

Say it louder, he said.

What, I shouted.

Netaji held his own head and looked down. When he looked up he was laughing. You are a silly funny bugger, he said.

I smiled politely. Okay then, I said.

Netaji shook his head. Plants do not have ears, he said, but if you say something loudly, they can feel the vibrations, and if it is a polite thing, they get happy.

I smiled politely again. I did not say anything. This vibrations nonsense was even more proof that we were dealing with madmen. But still, there was no denying the wondrousness of the hydroponic garden. It was a beautiful garden, like something created by the gods themselves. It even smelled beautiful, although I could not see many flowers of fragrance.

Beautiful, I said. Then I spoke very loudly: Beautiful!

Netaji smiled at me. Good, he said.

Can we see the onion hydroponic? I asked.

Netaji smiled and shook his head. No, not now, he said. That is in a special section that is under lock and key. For political reasons, you see.

I did not see. But out of politeness I felt I should not ask. I looked to Iqbal, who nodded for me to go ahead and ask. So I proceeded.

Why is onion under political confinement? I asked.

Netaji’s smile disappeared. It is a serious matter, he said, not something that can be easily explained to a funny bugger like yourself.

This seemed logical, even though I do not think of myself as a funny bugger.

Then Iqbal, my brother in life, came to the rescue.

Explain to me then, he said, because I am not a funny bugger whatsoever.

Netaji was quiet at first but then he spoke. Okay, he said, I will try. I will try and explain to you the political reasons behind the confinement of my hydroponic onions.

C
ome, said Netaji, let us go to the sitting area and have seats.

Okay, I said.

We followed Netaji as he led us in and out and between the rows and columns of glass-topped-and-bottomed tables and tanks. Presently we arrived at a wall, and in that wall was a doorway which had no door. I mean there was a cutout in the wall in the shape of a door, but no actual door was affixed.

The sitting area contained ample seating for the three of us. I say three because this Bhatkoo chap had disappeared again without any notice and without us noticing. Very strange, but I did not worry. At least there was no darkness in this place. Quite the opposite in fact—too much light for a simple seating area. But I did not complain for fear of angering the plants and by default Netaji himself.

So, said Netaji. He looked at Iqbal and nodded.

Iqbal nodded in reply.

You want to know the reason why my onion garden is under lock and key, is it? Netaji asked.

Yes, said Iqbal.

First tell me this, said Netaji.

What? said Iqbal.

I see you have beard, said Netaji.

Iqbal looked at me and then looked at Netaji. Yes, he said, I have beard.

Are you Muslim? said Netaji.

Yes indeed, said Iqbal.

I see, said Netaji.

I was curious as to these questions. Netaji was not showing any expression on face or in voice, and I could not tell if these were polite questions or serious questions. Not that politeness is not serious, but you know my meaning. Iqbal of course was as expressionless as Netaji during this polite interrogation.

Netaji continued with the questioning. You have relatives in Pakistan? he asked.

No, said Iqbal, I am hundred percent seventh generation Mumbaikar.

Don’t worry, said Netaji, it is only a polite question. Don’t be afraid to say so if you have relatives in Pakistan.

I would not be afraid, said Iqbal, but I have no such thing to say.

Okay, said Netaji, then I will continue with my explanation.

Excellent, said Iqbal.

I leaned forward so I could hear better. Netaji gave me a look from the side of his eyes, but he did not say anything to me. Still, out of politeness, I moved back little bit.

See, said Netaji, our historical border situation in the northern provinces has been quite touchy for the last sixty or seventy years.

Yes, said Iqbal, if you mean our borders with Pakistan and China and not so much our borders with Nepal and Bhutan.

Yes, yes, that is what I mean, said Netaji, the big problematic borders.

Now Netaji went quiet for many minutes, and I wondered if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open and sitting upright. But no, he presently came back to the present and continued.

You are Gandhians, yes? he asked.

Yes, said Iqbal.

Yes, I said.

You know that MK and myself were closely acquainted in the old days, yes? said Netaji.

MK? I asked.

Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, said Netaji, but I called him MK, and he did not mind it.

Okay, yes, said Iqbal. He gave me a look that meant be careful, this could be an explosive situation. I did not know at that time why Iqbal gave me that look. But soon I realized it was because historical records suggest that Gandhiji and Netaji had several major disagreements during the independence movement.

You know, said Netaji, history books will say that I had disagreements with MK.

Iqbal nodded but did not say anything. I did not even nod.

This was true in the early days, said Netaji, but the differences were dissolved by around 1942-43, even though this is not what the history books will say.

Iqbal nodded again.

Of course, I was not welcome in India around that time, partly because of my supposed opposition to MK and alleged connection to the Nazi party, said Netaji. He went quiet and he looked sad. That connection, he said, was exaggerated, although during the days of my disagreements with MK I may have believed that India needed a strong and merciless autocrat like that bloody bastard Adolf.

Iqbal nodded.

But it was not because I shared any of that bastard’s views or beliefs, said Netaji.

No, said Iqbal, you were known to be a champion of the equality of all people.

Yes, said Netaji, I am happy to hear it.

And I am happy to say it, said Iqbal.

Happy, I shouted.

Netaji gave me a look that possibly meant I should shut up. I did not want to take any risks, so I shut up.

Anyway, said Netaji, I was a young man then, full of need for immediate action and quick results, no matter what the cost. It was said that I said I would shake hands with the devil himself if it meant freedom for India.

Iqbal stared at Netaji and nodded slowly. I quietly put my hands behind my back.

Of course, I did not actually say that, said Netaji, but it is something I would have said, and in fact maybe I said it, who knows, it was seventy or eighty years ago now.

Iqbal nodded. Yes, he said, sometimes memory fails little bit after seventy-plus years.

But regardless, said Netaji, the benefits of my exile from India is the full crux of my point.

What benefits? asked Iqbal.

See, said Netaji, during my exile I travelled around the East Asia region, during which point my supposed death occurred in a plane crash over Taiwan.

Yes, said Iqbal, that is indeed the historical record of your death, although there have been some that said you were alive and well.

Yes, said Netaji, I was quite alive, and after the war I spent some time in Japan.

Okay, said Iqbal.

Yes, said Netaji, wonderful land and people, fish-lovers like myself, but not so much double-fried fish.

No, said Iqbal, they like the raw fish.

Yes yes, said Netaji, but that is not the crux of the point.

Okay sorry, said Iqbal, please go on to the crux.

The crux, said Netaji, is that Japan is small in land mass but large in people number.

Okay, said Iqbal.

I looked at Iqbal, and I could see that his mental wheels were turning, and so I said nothing.

And due to this discrepancy, said Netaji, they are motivated to arrive at many inventions and discoveries.

Okay, said Iqbal. He smiled, and I could see that Iqbal had arrived at a conclusion.

Yes, said Netaji, I see you are following me.

Indeed, said Iqbal.

So what you see here, said Netaji, is the wondrous fusion of invention and discovery that is a direct result of my exile that took me to Japan.

Netaji pointed in the direction of the large hydroponic garden that lay behind the wall that enclosed the seating area.

Iqbal smiled again. Yes, he said, I see.

I for one did not see the crux of the point or even the point itself. How this all related to the political confinement situation of the onion hydroponic I did not know. Since I had been reduced to a silly funny bugger who was not encouraged to speak, I simply sat quietly in my seat and sulked. Right now I was thinking more about the onion bhajias than of any political confinement issues. I almost asked for the bhajias, but then held my tongue out of politeness.

Would you like some onion bhajias? said Netaji. He looked at me and then at Iqbal.

No no, said Iqbal, you must continue with the crux of the point at hand.

I almost stood up and slapped Iqbal for his selfishness and lack of compassion. After all, he should have known that I was thinking about those bhajias. Iqbal is my brother in life. He knows my thought patterns, and in this case he must have willingly ignored my thought patterns and substituted his own thought patterns to take advantage of the situation. But the question had been asked to the both of us, so I decided to speak up for myself.

Yes, I said, I would like onion bhajias.

Iqbal held his head and shook it back and forth. I knew what he was thinking, but I did not care. Netaji made an offer, and I accepted the offer. It was quite simple, and I saw no harm in it.

Excellent, said Netaji.

He stood up and went close to the door-shaped cutout in the wall leading to the large hydroponic garden. He made some sounds in Bengali, and immediately Bhatkoo and two or three other people showed up in the door-shaped cutout area. Netaji said some things to them, then he pointed at me, and then all of them laughed. I smiled at them. I did not care if they thought of me as a funny bugger, at least not as long as I got some onion bhajias.