The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel (8 page)

R
K-sahib, said Netaji after the Bombay-ducks were consumed, perhaps things have become a little too combative and tense between us all.

I was full, but not full enough to forget our situation. Perhaps, I said.

See, said Netaji, I would not ask you to do anything that violates your Gandhian principles. At the end of it, one could say I am a Gandhian myself. And the task I have set for you and Iqbalji is one that would be near and dear to Bapuji’s heart.

I had my doubts about what this madman would have us do, but since the Bombay-duck was much better than my expectation of it, it stood to reason that perhaps the task would be better than expectation as well.

What is it, I said as I licked a piece of salty spice from my fingers.

Iqbal knows the details, said Netaji, and so he will explain it to you.

Iqbal nodded as I stared at him in surprise.

When did you learn of all this, I asked Iqbal.

When you were outside in the toilet, said Iqbal.

Okay, I said non-combatively because I did not want to draw attention to my previous Himalayan miscalculation of abusing the tomato fruit and not the mother plant itself.

I will leave you two for a while to talk, said Netaji. He got up and left, but not without a very meaningful look at Iqbal and an even more meaningful pat on the shoulders of Iqbal, my brother in life, the brother who was making plans to do something for a madman just because the madman had provided him with some onions.

It is not just for the onions, said Iqbal as he clutched his packet of onions like a squirrel clutching a stolen samosa.

Okay fine, I said, whatever you say.

No, said Iqbal, do not talk like that.

Okay fine, I said again.

Netaji may be a little bit cracked, he said, but he is not dangerous.

Okay fine, I said, then let us do his cracked job and then take leave of this place forever.

Now Iqbal looked at me with that same long face that he had displayed with great success at the beginning of our Gandhian adventures when we had made the fateful decision even before the tea had cooled. The decision to pursue the truth wherever he or she may lie, and whatever gender the truth may be. So I took a big sigh and leaned back in my chair and made some hand signals that indicated that I understood Iqbal’s look and that he should proceed with the explanation of our task.

Our task, said Iqbal, is for the continuity of Netaji’s undercover relations with extremist groups in Pakistan.

I sat quietly and tried to digest that statement, but digestion is not easy when the blood is boiling.

Those bastards, I shouted, they have killed hundreds and hundreds of innocent Indians and other peoples.

Yes, said Iqbal, but they have actually killed thousands and thousands of Pakistanis as well.

Fine, I said while still shouting, so that makes those bastards even worse.

Oh yes, said Iqbal, they are very very bad people.

Then why must we have any relations with them, I shouted, other than the relation of justice coming down upon their dirty hairy faces with great immediacy and extreme prejudice.

Remember what Netaji told us, said Iqbal, sometimes you have to shake the hand of a devil to secure peace and freedom.

I thought he said that he did not actually say that but people just said that he said it, I said.

Yes maybe, said Iqbal, but that is not the actual crux.

Now you are sounding like the madman, I said, with your talk of devils and cruxes.

The crux, said Iqbal, is that Netaji’s onion relationships with these bearded extremists generates peace in Pakistani villages and towns, and so people have less cause to kill each other or attack our border troops.

So our Mumbai people will have to go without onions while the Pakistani villagers eat biryani with extra-double-onion, I said.

Iqbal nodded and shrugged. Only for a short time, he said, until the Indian onion supply is increased through normal methods.

And at this point I was struck by a brainwave that showed me how the Indian onion supply could be increased through abnormal methods. We would divert the madman’s hydroponic onions to the Mumbai market. Quite a simple plan, really. So I told it to Iqbal.

And so, I said in conclusion, the increase in Indian onion supply will bring domestic peace and good health, and will make the Indian people more resistant to terror attacks and border skirmishes.

That is a stupid plan, said Iqbal, and you are focusing only on domestic issues and ignoring the larger foreign relations issues that are at play here.

Ah, I said, suddenly you are an expert in foreign policy, is it?

Not suddenly, said Iqbal, I have been an expert for many years due to my deep ties to Pakistan and the Pakistani people.

I stared at Iqbal in surprise. Earlier he had denied any ties with Pakistan, and so my surprise was purely related to Iqbal’s deliberate concealment of the truth. Other than that, ties with Pakistan is not such a problem. After all, the Indian and Pakistani people are one and the same, sisters like Hindi and Urdu, or brothers like myself and Iqbal. But now my brother had made two diametrically opposite statements today, and my boiling blood began to beckon me to seek the truth in this small matter before moving on to the larger matters of onion relationships with Pakistani terrorist groups.

Yes, said Iqbal, actually my entire mother’s side of the family is from Pakistani Lahore.

Okay, I said, why did you not say so earlier then?

Because, said Iqbal, at that point I was not sure of Netaji’s purpose in asking me such focused questions.

But that means you lied, I said, when you were committed to unwavering pursuit of the ways of Gandhi and the truth.

Commitment to the truth does not mean you cannot lie once in a while, said Iqbal, especially when it comes to foreign relations issues.

But neither me nor Netaji is foreign, I said.

You are not foreign, said Iqbal, but Netaji in fact is foreign.

What, I said with a laugh, how can that be?

Because, said Iqbal, since Netaji was considered dead and out of the country before 1947 when India gained independence, he never became a citizen of free India.

How can that be, I said, there are birthright rights and what-not.

Those rights and laws are not clear, said Iqbal, and so I did not want to volunteer sensitive foreign relations information at that point to someone who could be a non-citizen of India.

But so now you have clarified with Netaji through direct questioning? I asked.

Yes, said Iqbal, and he has confirmed that he is a citizen of no country at this point.

How can that be? I said.

How it can be I just explained, said Iqbal.

But he is a madman, I said, just another Indian madman.

Could a madman have remained without wrinkles for over a hundred years? Could a madman have survived by wandering from Taiwan to Japan with no friends except the plants and trees? Could a madman have returned to Bombay with no passport and secured a courtyard and attached building with wondrous hydroponic gardens? asked Iqbal with a sweeping gesture of his hand.

The hydroponics were truly wondrous, and as I looked at the tomato that was still sitting there on the ground where I had dropped it, I could not help but agree with my brother in life. If this Netaji was a madman, then perhaps being mad is better than not being mad, or at least it is more useful as a means to accomplishing great and wondrous things. And so I was once again drawn into agreement with my brother Iqbal, and once again I felt our wavelengths connect together, and I even understood that sometimes you may have to lie in the interest of the truth, at least in foreign relations affairs. Finally I decided to leave alone the matter of me spending all our years of brotherhood not knowing that Iqbal’s mother’s side of the family was Pakistani. That question could wait until later. For now I needed to understand what foreign relations task we were assigned to do.

We are to liaison with representatives of three different Pakistani groups, said Iqbal, and hand over a shipment of hydroponic onions.

But we cannot go to Pakistan, I said in protest, my wife will be angry if I am not home soon.

No no, said Iqbal, we are not going to Pakistan.

By deductive reasoning I quickly arrived at the alternative.

Which means those Pakistani lussuns are coming here to Mumbai, I said.

Liaisons, said Iqbal, lussun means garlic.

B
ut why us, I asked, does Netaji not already know these people and have relations with them?

No, said Iqbal, these are new people.

So then all the more reason for Netaji to meet them and develop new relations with them, I said.

Yes, said Iqbal, but they will not deal directly with Netaji.

Why not, I asked.

Because they are extremists, said Iqbal, and so they will only deal with a Muslim.

Now it all became clear to me: Netaji’s questioning of Iqbal’s religion and background, the meaningful glances, the pat on the shoulder. And as I thought about all that, my previous brainwave returned and I realized we were in a supremely advantageous position to seize the hydroponic shipment and distribute the onions to the onionless crowds of Mumbai. We would be true heroes, and the names of RK and Iqbal would ring out through the streets as onion bhajias and other wondrous derivatives of onion were cooked and consumed. Perhaps there would even be a special day named after us, and every year the people would honor us by having onion-based festivals and fairs across the city of Mumbai and maybe even including the suburbs of Mumbai, depending on how large the shipment of onions turned out to be.

How large is the shipment of onions, I asked.

Five thousand kilos, said Iqbal.

I almost fell off my chair with weight-shock. Five thousand kilos is a tremendous and wondrous amount of anything, let alone onions during a time of onion problem and possible onion crisis. Now I understood why all of these onions had to be under lock and key, and why Netaji could not let silly buggers like myself run free through the Mumbai streets until trust had been gained. I laughed to myself when I realized that Netaji was right not to trust me, because I would shortly be proving myself untrustworthy in the task of delivering five thousand kilos of onions to these bearded terrorists. I laughed again, and when I emerged from my brainwave, Iqbal was eyeing me suspiciously.

You are acting funny, he said.

No no, I said.

You are not planning any funny business I hope, said Iqbal.

Can there be any funnier business plans than delivering five thousand kilos of onions to Pakistani extremist groups? I said in hopes of diverting the question without actually answering it.

Yes, said Iqbal, if you hope to divert the onion shipment from the Pakistani militants to the Mumbaikars, it would count as funny business.

But Iqbal, I said.

Iqbal looked shocked. I rarely call him by name, partly because I am always near to him when talking, and so I just talk and he knows I am talking to him.

But Iqbal, I said again, how can we give away the crisp onions to a bunch of foreigners when our Mumbai brothers and sisters are without the same?

That is not for us to question, said Iqbal, our government does that anyway through exports and other such trade agreements.

So you do not want to question it, I said, just accept it?

Now this hit Iqbal like a squirrel being hit by a samosa. He was quiet for many moments, and I could tell that he was thinking about the question and its relation to our aggressive stance on the truth and its pursuit. After many more moments of quiet thought, Iqbal finally looked directly at me, and immediately I knew that my brother in life was fully back on my wavelength.

You are correct, he said, all this talk about onion reducing border conflict and what-not may be true, but we cannot simply accept the truth based on someone saying so. We will have to find out for ourselves first, and only then will we allow the shipment of onions to be delivered.

B
ut how to find out for ourselves without transporting ourselves personally to the borders or even the interior provinces of Pakistan and interviewing the villagers? Of course, we would be up to the task—up north they speak only Hindi and Urdu, and we have good command over those two sister languages. But the problem is with the transportation and the explanation to our wives and also visa requirements for Pakistan, which can be problematic for common Indians.

We will have to question the liaisons themselves, said Iqbal firmly.

What? I said, but that could be dangerous.

Perhaps, said Iqbal, but nobody said pursuit of the truth is a safe thing to do.

No, I said, in fact, if anything, they say the opposite.

And this thought curdled my blood and bothered my digestive tract. After all, pursuit of truth led to Gandhiji’s untimely death at the hands of the villain Godse. And Iqbal and I were not as good in truth pursuit and not as noble and great as Gandhiji, so what hope would we have against villains with beards and AK47s?

Will they have AK47s? I asked Iqbal.

But now Netaji had re-entered the room, and he laughed when he heard my question.

I see Iqbal has explained some of the plans but maybe not all of the details, he said.

I looked at Iqbal and then at Netaji and then at the empty plate that once held the Bombay-duck. The plate was yellow and greasy, and perfectly reflected my state of mind and stomach at that crucial juncture in my life.

Not to worry, said Netaji, the people you will meet are not murderers, they simply work for murderers.

But is the servant of a terrorist-murderer also not a terrorist-murderer? I asked, just like the servant of a madman must necessarily be a madman himself.

At this last statement Bhatkoo eyed me from through the door, but I think he was smart enough to know that a reaction from him would simply prove my point and expose him as a madman-servant of a madman-master. I felt good at my psychological manipulation, and this gave me some confidence when I thought about how I could use the same powers to extract data and other information from the servants of the bearded Pakistani terrorists.

And technically speaking, the groups scheduled to meet us tomorrow are not yet murderers, said Netaji, since they are newly formed and have not made any attacks yet.

Iqbal nodded and looked at me in earnest as if to apologize for not making this all-important point.

I scratched myself and thought aloud. So they are terrorists in name only and not yet in deed and action, I said wisely.

Correct, said Netaji, and you two, with a successful exchange of onions for weapons, can extend their period of philosophical-but-not-physical terrorism.

Exchange? I said, again looking at Iqbal, who was now shifting about and looking up at the ceiling and then down at the tiles.

Correct, said Netaji, you will give them onions, and they will give you weapons, and they will take the onions back to Pakistan, and you both will expunge the region of such weapons by dropping them into the Arabian Sea.

Now Iqbal seemed very excited. He looked at me with a nodding head, and to tell the truth, I was excited as well. This was really good foreign relations work, something that truly was making some physical impact while ignoring the philosophical impact, which is important, since most foreign policy focuses on silly philosophical things while allowing people to get shot and raped and burned and what-not. This Netaji may be a madman and is probably not even really Netaji, but no one can deny his diplomacy and foreign policy wisdom at this point.

Still, the presence of weapons would make it dangerous work nonetheless, and so I proceeded with caution, and tried to use my powers of reverse psychological manipulation.

But tell me one thing Netaji, I said, will the guns and weapons be active and loaded?

Perhaps, said Netaji, even though I have asked for bullets and bomb-detonators to be delivered in a separate boat, you never know with terrorist groups that you have not worked with before.

Boat? I asked. What boat?

The boat that will carry the Pakistanis and the guns and the bombs from Pakistan, said Netaji. How else to bring them here? By bullock-cart through the Himalayas? Or by aeroplane and parachute? You are quite a silly bugger. It is good that Iqbal will be leader of the exchange operation.

Iqbal seemed to take this as his cue to step up to me and explain the previously unexplained details of this highly dangerous and complicated mission. Apparently at this very moment Netaji’s attendants were loading up two boats with onions. Iqbal and me and Bhatkoo and one more attendant would be operating those boats, and we would be meeting two equivalent-sized boats in the dark waters beyond the Haji-Ali darga. After exchanging codewords and pleasantries, we would effect an exchange of boats, and once the Pakistanis had taken the onion-boats away to the high seas, we were to sink the two gun-boats and return to shore as secret heroes and full members of Netaji’s Hydroponic Foreign Policy Institute.

So we are to sink the gun-boats and swim back to the Haji-Ali darga? I asked Iqbal. In the water? In the dark? Are you mad? Have you become a madman also?

No no no, said Netaji with a laugh. There will be another boat of mine that will come and meet you once the Pakistanis have gone. You will begin the sinking procedure, and then you will all be evacuated to the third boat and brought back to the Indian Motherland like secret heroes whose names nobody will know because our work must be kept secret.

But can I tell my wife, I said.

No no no, said Netaji, that could cause problems.

Why? I said.

I do not know your particular wife, said Netaji with his head bowed, and so I do not want to generalize, but many wives have a tendency to bring up practical obstacles to such plans as exchange of boats in the darkness and sinking two boats with thousands of kilos of guns and bombs and bullets and detonators.

I thought about my wife and realized that perhaps she would point out some difficulties in the plan, and perhaps even try and persuade me to abort the plan and go to the police or the Navy or the Coast Guard.

I see, I said quietly, I see.

Good, said Netaji, good. This will happen tomorrow night, and so now you both can go home to your particular wives, but Bhatkoo and one more attendant will accompany you.