Kabuliwala

It was a dimly lit room and a stocky man with a beard was sitting behind a small table as a group of people surrounded him. “Everything is in place and it is fool proof plan, so you decide, if you are coming along,” said the man smilingly to others with worried looks.

“Are you sure it will be safe and we will reach home in two days? There is too much of checking going around and the police are checking every vehicle and every person on the road.”

“Look, I have a road permit to drive my truck to Gorakhpur for a road project and my contractor has given me the letter along with the police permission. It cannot get any safer,” said the man as he showed the original papers.

“Our factories are shut for over a month now and we have very little money left. Please reduce your charges, God will bless you.”

“I do not know about God, whether he will bless me or not, but till the time I am here on earth, I need to survive. So, no haggling! I can take with me sixteen men and at Rs 5000 per person, I will hardly make anything for myself. You know the police will be there with outstretched hands at every crossing and if I were to get caught, I will lose my job for ever. So, you decide now. If you think I am asking too much, let me know. There are so many more people willing to pay double the money.”

The men looked at each other and took out money from their trouser pockets and some from inside their shirts. They counted every note carefully for this was a fortune they were giving away for a ride back home. Living in the city had become difficult since the outbreak of the pandemic. Every day waiting for someone to come and distribute some packets of food, hiding inside their dingy rooms with six to eight of them cramped in…even the air inside smelt foul. Maybe, this was their only chance to go back home and live under the blue sky, working in their small fields but with honour, dignity and freedom.

The night before the journey, the men did not sleep well. There was excitement about seeing their families in their villages, there was nervousness about the illegal mode they were taking to reach home and uncertainty about the success of their escape plan. They packed few clothes, made paranthas, packed chutney in bottles and hid the small cash that was left on them in the insides of their trousers what they called chor pocket. And of course took their mobile chargers which were more than a lifeline to them. The whole day they kept playing with their mobile phones messaging people back home, sending selfies and even jokes, at times.

As the sun set, they went to the appointed place where Iqbal was waiting for them near the cement mixer. He walked close to the sixteen men and said, “I can only take fifteen of you. One of you must stay back and I will return the money for the person who will not go.”

 All were dying to go but then Chandu raised his hand and agreed to drop out. He was always skeptical about the success of the escape plan but had agreed to follow the other friends, all of whom belonged to the same village, and had come to the city looking for work together. Chandu, hugged all his fifteen friends as they climbed up truck and went into the hole of the cement mixer. He shouted aloud, “Tell my people, I will also come home soon,” as he turned back, rubbing his eyes dry and the truck started moving.

Inside the mixer it was all dark and the fifteen of them were told to keep complete silence lest anyone outside heard them talk and then they would all end up in a prison. They were also told not to use their phones. Everything had to be done in total secrecy. And after driving for about five hours the truck stopped. Iqbal shouted, “It is time for you to come out and stretch a bit. Get some fresh air and eat something for soon it will be daylight and then you will be holed up inside for the next fifteen hours.”

As they came out of the dark hole, the friends realized there was one more person with them inside. Iqbal announced, “That is Shoib, my younger brother. After you all reach your village, I will drive the truck to the project site and Shoib will go to our native village.” The others were not amused. Iqbal had cheated their friend Chandu from reaching home along with them. On another day they would have fought and beaten up the cheat but not today. Today was the day they had a more important mission, mission to reach home anyhow. After a while, they hopped inside the mixer but fuming with anger.

Without uttering a single word, they looked at Shoib as if he was the virus in their midst. They abused him silently but the movement of the lips and hand gestures were easily recognizable as to what cuss words were being said. Shoib felt uneasy but what could he do other than face the fury of the fifteen angry men. As the abuses went on unabated, Shoib lost his cool and lunged at Dharma who was sitting closest to him and brought his fist down under his eye with full force. That was enough for the other fourteen to pounce on the boy and start thrashing him. Iqbal could feel the commotion at the back of the truck and he pushed the brake pedal and stopped and got off to check. He sensed there was a big fight going on inside. He climbed up and pulled the people apart. He had an iron rod in his hand which he never used. Shoib was bleeding from his nose and Iqbal was shivering in anger, but he controlled himself. He pressed his towel hanging from his shoulder tightly on Shoib’s nose till the bleeding stopped.

Iqbal said something into Shoib’s ears and went back to his driver’s seat and pressed the mixer button slightly. The big mixer moved a little and Shoib went to one side where he saw a large gunny bag with ropes tied on both sides. Iqbal moved the mixer button again and Shoib found himself lying on the bed of gunny bag hanging from top like a hammock as the other fifteen sat below looking up at him in awe. The truck started moving again and as the morning turned to noon, the heat inside became unbearable. But the fifteen friends sat silently, happy that they were getting closer and closer to their destination. As the sun set for one last time, Iqbal stopped the truck again and asked the people inside to come out for one last time. He maneuvered the mixer in a manner that Shoib, too, managed to come out and stretch.

Iqbal, trying to patch up, walked the lot to the nearby dhaba and they ate roti, dal and sabji. Before they went back to the mixer, the friends also bought some desi liquor to enjoy inside to celebrate their escape to victory. Shoib went up to his hammock, as the bottles were opened. Friends made dancing poses while enjoying the drinks straight from the bottle in the excitement of reaching home in the next couple of hours…home, far from the madding crowds to which ,they promised, they would never ever return. Dharma’s eye still hurt and it did not let him forget the blow mighty Shoib had given him. He was still fuming with anger and he pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Chandu, “We are about to reach home soon. The driver is a cheat and he gave your seat to his brother. It would have been so much better had you come along with us.”

Chandu read the message. It was almost 2 o’clock in the morning. By 5 am the truck was to reach their village at Rampur. He got up, not in anger but more in jealousy that his other people were reaching home and he was stuck in the city for who knows how much longer. He went to the police station at Seemapuri Colony and opened up…”Sir, there is a mixer on way to Rampur with sixteen people inside. The driver Iqbal has taken money from all for this illegal transportation.” With the vehicle details in his possession, the Sub-Inspector called up UP Police.

Iqbal was happy that his plan had worked and had even raised the volume of the FM radio playing an old Hindi film song, “Aye mere pyare watan, aye mere bhichade chaman, tujhpe dil qurbaan…” Another two hours and all will be done….just then he saw twin headlights beaming straight at his eyes. It was a police jeep in front with two policemen signaling with their arms to stop. He stopped and even before he could show them the papers and tell them about the project work, the policemen walked to the mixer and with a lathi they banged at the opening….”Saalon sab bahar aa jao…we know you are inside. If you do not come out on your own, we will pull you out and beat you up!”

The terrified men inside came out one by one, all except Shoib. The policemen counted…One, two, three…fifteen. We were told there are sixteen of you. Where is the last man?

The friends kept quiet. One policeman went inside the mixer and also looked at the floor carefully with a torch. “There is no one inside!” Unhappy to have caught one less escapee, the Inspector ordered Iqbal to roll the mixer real hard for five minutes. Iqbal pressed the mixer button and slowly the drum started rotating…slowly at first and then with great speed. When he stopped, the policeman again went inside to check and came out shaking his head. All the prisoners were less than fifty kilometres from home and with Iqbal, they were made to walk to the police station.  

When it had gone all quiet, Shoib came down, still dizzy from the absolute shake he had encountered while holding on to the gunny bag tight. He peeped outside. Seeing no one around, he jumped down and started running. He kept running till he reached Mominpur Gaon and almost collapsed near the well. When he came back to his senses, he was in his grandfather’s house and all the people in the family looking at him in awe. He put a hand inside his chor pocket and brought out a small cotton bag and handed it to Iqbal’s wife. “Bhaijaan has said he will surely come. You start the preparations with this.”  The woman burst out crying. Iqbal had sent money for their daughter’s nikah that was to take place in a week’s time.

SS

PS. This is a fictonal account inspired by a true incident reported in the newspapers.