The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel (6 page)

T
he onion bhajias came quickly and went quickly also. I polished off ninety-two percent of the seventeen onion bhajias placed before me. Iqbal did not notice because he was used to such things, and Netaji did not seem to mind. I saw that Bhatkoo and those other chaps were watching me from the door-shaped cutout, but I did not care about them.

Now, said Netaji, we can continue with the crux at hand.

May I have some water? I asked.

Iqbal looked slightly angry, but not so much. After all, to deny a thirsty man water is to commit an act of violence against him, and we were Gandhians, men of nonviolence.

Presently the water came, and I consumed it with appropriate quickness and respect. Bhatkoo took the empty glass from me and yet again disappeared into some unseen space in the brightly lit room.

Now, said Netaji, we can continue.

Yes, said Iqbal.

I meant to speak, but only some gas emerged from my mouth.

Iqbal quickly continued. So Netaji, he said, the hydroponics technology has been appropriated from the Japanese, is it?

Netaji nodded. Yes and no. Some of the knowledge comes from there, but the electronics and lights and seeds and water and nutrient concentrates are of course Indian.

I nodded wisely and with a smile to show my Indian pride.

But now it seemed Iqbal was the one with the incisive and borderline dangerous questions.

But Netaji, said Iqbal, if the ingredients and infrastructure is all Indian, then what is the political sensitivity of the hydroponics? Why is it not being used for the benefit of onion problems? Why? And why not?

Netaji looked down at the highly reflective tiled floor, but I could tell he was not angry. He may even have been smiling, although it could also have been an expression of eye pain due to excessive light from said reflectiveness.

Now he looked up and smiled. Some problems are bigger than onion problem, he said.

I was about to protest loudly and with anger, but yet again simply gas escaped from my open mouth, and so I remained in my thoughtful and quiet position of agreement. I looked at Iqbal, who was surprisingly calm. I say surprising because the onion problem must have been weighing heavily on his thin head.

But Iqbal simply nodded wisely. And by wisely I mean not like how I previously nodded to make others think I was wise. No, Iqbal must be really understanding what this madman is saying.

Border disputes, said Iqbal.

Netaji smiled, and now he nodded wisely.

I almost shouted with anger. After all, we have already established that all border disputes are directly related to the onion problem. Still, out of fear of releasing more gas, and possibly appearing unwise, I kept quiet and let these other two wise men talk.

Yes, said Netaji, causes of border disputes are many of course, and it is not up to one or two of us to ascertain and address such matters of immense gravity.

I nodded again.

But, said Netaji, we can do something to help. And that is what I am doing.

Now Iqbal was still, and he began to touch his beard, which meant he was thinking of a question.

Netaji appeared to anticipate a question, and he interjected with his own question. Smart bugger, this madman.

Tell me, said Netaji, why is it we have not had wars with Pakistan and China for over ten years now?

We were both quiet.

Netaji smiled. He appeared to be very satisfied by his unanswerable question. Unanswerable by us only, it seems, because Netaji himself proceeded to answer it.

Onions, he said.

Onions? I asked.

Netaji smiled again. See, he said, India is a big exporter of onions to many countries. Countries that include Pakistan and China.

But how and why? I said. After all, China occupies number one rank in onion production. How can we send our nice round onions to them when there is onion problem here itself?

That is the thing, said Netaji, when there is onion problem here, we do not send our nice round onions to our neighbors in the north.

Okay, I said, that is sensible.

No, said Netaji.

What? I said.

Yes, said Netaji. See, onion problems in Pakistan and China are as big as problems here in India. Bigger even, since there are no Jains in those countries, and therefore a much higher percentage of the population consumes onions.

I nodded. Yes, these Jains have caused many onion problems.

Netaji laughed and shook his head. You are a silly bugger, he said. No, really, quite silly. Jains are not causing any problems anywhere. Please leave them out of this, you silly bugger.

Iqbal also looked at me as if I was the madman and not this other madman who says he is Netaji. But regardless, due to being outnumbered, I looked down as if to say sorry.

Sorry, said Iqbal, he is a silly bugger, but he means well.

Yes, I see, said Netaji.

Sorry, I said.

No matter, said Netaji, let us continue.

Okay, said Iqbal.

As I was saying, said Netaji, onion problems in Pakistan and China cause lots of social upheaval, and hence the government starts to feel pressure. And this pressure can be rebounded to India in the form of border attacks and other such nonsense that distracts the people from the onion problems. See, onion shortage becomes less of a problem if you can immediately create other bigger problems such as war.

So you are saying that decrease in onion exports from India to Pakistan and China can lead to war sometimes? asked Iqbal.

Not sometimes, said Netaji, all the time. All the previous wars were directly related to drop in Indian onion exports. If you study the correlations of failure of Indian onion crop with increase in border disputes, you will find a hundred percent correlation.

But correlation does not imply causation, I said with my one finger raised in the air for dramatic effect.

Netaji and Iqbal stared at me as if I had turned into a Bombay-duck.

Sorry, I said.

They did not say anything. I think they were shocked at my precise and timely comment. As I mentioned before, maths is my strong suit.

Netaji now looked at me and smiled and nodded. Yes, my silly friend. You are quite correct. But what if I told you that exactly one year prior to each border dispute, the onion crop had failed, leading to cancellation of onion exports?

That would still not guarantee causation, I said with confidence and perhaps some obstinence.

No, said Netaji, no guarantee, but there is strong indication, would you not agree?

Yes, I said.

Yes, said Iqbal.

Okay, so to continue to the crux of my point, said Netaji, every time India stops sending onions to Pakistan and China, they reply by sending missiles and soldiers.

That is not fair, I said.

Very rude, said Iqbal.

Netaji laughed. Yes, he said, unfair and rude, but not unexpected given the lack of good democratic government in Pakistan and China.

I do not follow, I said.

Iqbal was quiet. I could see he was thinking, but I could also see that he did not follow Netaji’s reasoning.

See, said Netaji, in these non-democratic countries, the rulers are in constant fear of revolution. And since it is very easy for these rulers to make rules, they can start border disputes with just one or two simple rulings.

I was still confused, but Iqbal was smiling.

Okay, said Iqbal, and since onion problem is the number one reason for revolution, when there is onion problem in non-democratic countries, the rulers create border disputes to distract the people. That is what you are trying to explain to us.

Yes, said Netaji.

Iqbal and I were quiet once again. The conversation was very complicated, and I was not sure if it was over or not. I thought about my wife, and I became hungry again.

So, said Netaji.

So, said Iqbal.

Okay, I said, shall we take leave then?

You Gandhians have had enough truth for one day? said Netaji.

Iqbal looked at me.

I made a sound.

Iqbal was still looking at me when I stopped making sounds.

No, I said, there can never be enough truth.

Netaji laughed. Good, he said, because you have not yet found out why my hydroponic onions are under lock and key.

It is obvious now, I said.

Okay, said Netaji, then explain it.

See, I said, when there is onion problem in India, you release your hydroponic onions to the Indian market to offset the problem. And so you must keep the onions locked up so that you can control the delivery and timing of said delivery. Simple.

Yes, said Iqbal, simple and patriotic.

Very much so, I said.

Netaji is indeed a great freedom fighter, said Iqbal.

Thank you, thank you, said Netaji, but you are all wrong about everything except the fact of my patriotism.

Again we were quiet.

Netaji leaned back in his chair and looked around the brightly lit room as if to make sure no one was hiding. See, he said, I actually supply my hydroponic onions directly to Pakistani and Chinese groups.

We were still quiet, but in stunned state.

After some time I spoke.

But Netaji, I said.

Netaji shook his head. See, he said, my hydroponics do not produce sufficient output to affect Indian national supply enough that we can maintain exports during local onion crisis.

Okay, I said.

So, said Netaji, I am left with two choices—one is to supply only the Bombay region with onions, and the other is to supply only certain groups in Pakistan and China with onions.

What groups, asked Iqbal.

In Pakistan it is mainly the big groups like Taliban and Lakshar-e-Taibba, said Netaji, and in China it is the Maoist rebel groups.

It is hard now to describe our feelings of confusion. The bright lights were creating havoc with my sense of balance and sanity, and if I was not so round, I would surely have gotten up to run away from this madman.

Do not be afraid, said Netaji, it is not what it seems.

Then what is it? said Iqbal.

Netaji laughed. Did I not say I was a patriot?

Actually I said it, I said.

No, I said it, said Iqbal.

Does not matter who said it, said Netaji.

Okay, I said.

Iqbal was quiet, and I could tell he was thinking of a way to escape from this madman, but was conflicted by our pledge to pursue the truth. Although, to be honest, I did not think that such danger to our own lives should be necessary for pursuit of truth. At least not on the first day of pursuing truth. Again I thought of my wife, and I felt sad that since this madman was undoubtedly going to murder us, I would not see her again. My dear, sweet wife. So much love for her I felt in that moment under the bright lights.

Then I felt hungry again, and so I paid attention to the madman.

He was still laughing, but not so much like a madman. More like someone who was playing a trick on us.

See, said Netaji, I will give you an example of the problem and my solution.

Okay, I said.

Yes, said Iqbal.

Now imagine there is an onion problem and exports to Pakistan have been cut, said Netaji.

Okay, said Iqbal.

Wait one minute, I said.

They both looked at me.

Okay, I said, I am ready.

Now, said Netaji, low exports means onion problem in Pakistan, which increases chances for revolution because people are getting angry because their food does not taste so good without onions.

Yes, I said, that Pakistani food is very much dependent on onions.

Okay, said Netaji, so the rulers get some of these angry groups like Taliban and Lakshar to recruit some angry Pakistani villagers to launch attacks along the border with India and Kashmir, and then all the local Pakistanis become occupied with all that militant nonsense.

Ah, said Iqbal, and so the locals are not so worried about their food being less tasty.

Ah, I said, and therefore they are less interested in starting internal revolutions. It is simple misdirection of aggression.

Yes, said Netaji, yes.

And so logically, said Iqbal, if you supply onions directly to angry groups like Taliban and Lakshar, perhaps they will become less angry, and maybe they will be less motivated to recruit angry villagers to launch attacks.

Yes, said Netaji, and hence I am a patriot.

I thought about this for some time. It seemed logical, but still something was off.

But Netaji, I said, by depriving Indian locals of your onions, are you not creating angry conditions in the homeland?

Iqbal looked at me and nodded.