The Gandhian Adventures of Raj & Iqbal: A Novel by Zubin J. Shroff Page B
Authors: Zubin J. Shroff
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previous day was all a dream induced by not eating proper lunch. But as I became convinced that it was indeed a dream, I experienced the funny feeling of sadness, like I was sad that it was a dream. That could only mean one thing: I was becoming a true Gandhian and becoming addicted to the aggressive pursuit of passive resistance.
Fooled you, came a voice from the ceiling.
Yes yes, came another voice from another part of the ceiling.
I looked up to see Bhatkoo and Shamoo suspended from different-different parts of the same ceiling. After rubbing my eyes to make sure it was not another dream like how sometimes in a dream you dream of other things, I examined the situation and found that it was not as fantastical as I had previously supposed. Bhatkoo and Shamoo were individually suspended by long cloths and bedsheets that they had affixed to large hooks that I had once used to hang a very large swing. I do not know why they had decided to do such a silly thing, but at least it was clear to me that their doing so was not a sign of the supernatural and more likely a sign of the mental instability of these poor servants who may have spent too much time in a dark hydroponic hole doing strange things for a one-hundred-year-old madman with the skin of a soap model.
We saw the hooks and could not resist, said Bhatkoo as he lowered himself and then went to help Shamoo come down without incident.
Yes, I said, the hooks are indeed unresistable.
Both of them laughed, and they were pleased when I offered them fresh tea and some hot toast and butter and jam. It seemed that they had not packed any food for breakfast.
We finished breakfast, and although I offered to allow use of my spare bathroom for them to bathe, they said it would not be necessary at that point, and they would bathe later at the hydroponics headquarters. Of course, I informed them that I would have to go to office for at least three-to-four hours, but they laughed and said not to worry about office because Netaji has taken care of it already.
Means what? I asked in worry, fearing that Netaji has sent some madman to my office to relieve me of my hard-earned office job.
Not to worry, said Bhatkoo, Netaji will explain when we arrive at his place.
What about Iqbal? I said.
Iqbal-ji already knows that Netaji has engineered a release from Saturday work for you both, said Shamoo, and so he will meet us near the pao-bhaji-walla shortly, and we will all walk to the courtyard where Netaji must be finishing up his sweeping duties by now.
I felt a small bit of worry with mention of the pao-bhaji-walla. After all, it was due to fleeing from the pao-bhaji-walla that we first came across the previously undiscovered courtyard of Netaji’s. In some way it seemed fitting that our second day of Gandhian adventures also begins with a sighting of the pao-bhaji-walla, and perhaps it would not be so bad to eat a few quick plates of his special bhaji before starting this day.
And Netaji says that you are not to eat any pao-bhaji, said Bhatkoo as if my thoughts were available for all to read.
Why not, I demanded.
Because of danger of sea-sickness later, said Shamoo.
Yes, said Bhatkoo, today you will be on a strict diet prepared in the house of Netaji.
Although this troubled me, as any talk of others restricting my diet troubled me, I did not argue, because now I was a seasoned Gandhian, and I expected some hardships and sacrifices to line my path to the truth.
Fine, I said, no pao-bhaji then.
Luckily Iqbal was already near the pao-bhaji stand so we did not have to wait there, and luckily there was a surprising number of people eating pao-bhaji so early in the morning. But as we walked past the stand and towards the main road, the pao-bhaji-walla’s helper caught sight of me and came running to me with the pieces of his bucket that I had broken the previous day. At first I thought to run, then I decided to stand and fight, but soon I realized that neither was necessary because
Fooled you, came a voice from the ceiling.
Yes yes, came another voice from another part of the ceiling.
I looked up to see Bhatkoo and Shamoo suspended from different-different parts of the same ceiling. After rubbing my eyes to make sure it was not another dream like how sometimes in a dream you dream of other things, I examined the situation and found that it was not as fantastical as I had previously supposed. Bhatkoo and Shamoo were individually suspended by long cloths and bedsheets that they had affixed to large hooks that I had once used to hang a very large swing. I do not know why they had decided to do such a silly thing, but at least it was clear to me that their doing so was not a sign of the supernatural and more likely a sign of the mental instability of these poor servants who may have spent too much time in a dark hydroponic hole doing strange things for a one-hundred-year-old madman with the skin of a soap model.
We saw the hooks and could not resist, said Bhatkoo as he lowered himself and then went to help Shamoo come down without incident.
Yes, I said, the hooks are indeed unresistable.
Both of them laughed, and they were pleased when I offered them fresh tea and some hot toast and butter and jam. It seemed that they had not packed any food for breakfast.
We finished breakfast, and although I offered to allow use of my spare bathroom for them to bathe, they said it would not be necessary at that point, and they would bathe later at the hydroponics headquarters. Of course, I informed them that I would have to go to office for at least three-to-four hours, but they laughed and said not to worry about office because Netaji has taken care of it already.
Means what? I asked in worry, fearing that Netaji has sent some madman to my office to relieve me of my hard-earned office job.
Not to worry, said Bhatkoo, Netaji will explain when we arrive at his place.
What about Iqbal? I said.
Iqbal-ji already knows that Netaji has engineered a release from Saturday work for you both, said Shamoo, and so he will meet us near the pao-bhaji-walla shortly, and we will all walk to the courtyard where Netaji must be finishing up his sweeping duties by now.
I felt a small bit of worry with mention of the pao-bhaji-walla. After all, it was due to fleeing from the pao-bhaji-walla that we first came across the previously undiscovered courtyard of Netaji’s. In some way it seemed fitting that our second day of Gandhian adventures also begins with a sighting of the pao-bhaji-walla, and perhaps it would not be so bad to eat a few quick plates of his special bhaji before starting this day.
And Netaji says that you are not to eat any pao-bhaji, said Bhatkoo as if my thoughts were available for all to read.
Why not, I demanded.
Because of danger of sea-sickness later, said Shamoo.
Yes, said Bhatkoo, today you will be on a strict diet prepared in the house of Netaji.
Although this troubled me, as any talk of others restricting my diet troubled me, I did not argue, because now I was a seasoned Gandhian, and I expected some hardships and sacrifices to line my path to the truth.
Fine, I said, no pao-bhaji then.
Luckily Iqbal was already near the pao-bhaji stand so we did not have to wait there, and luckily there was a surprising number of people eating pao-bhaji so early in the morning. But as we walked past the stand and towards the main road, the pao-bhaji-walla’s helper caught sight of me and came running to me with the pieces of his bucket that I had broken the previous day. At first I thought to run, then I decided to stand and fight, but soon I realized that neither was necessary because
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