World within, world without

By Amar Jaleel

Our society is full of contradictions that no one seems to be bothered about

WE celebrated the New Year night to our hearts’ content at the palatial kothi (bungalow) of our aged friend G. N. Aagboot, a shipping magnet hailing no one knows from where. He holds the national identity card and a Pakistani passport, and has been living in Karachi for decades. No one doubts his identity. He is a Pakistani. Legend has it that G. N. Aagboot once was a crack fisherman who had irresistible longing for deep-sea fishing. At times he was seen as death-defying seafarer. G. N. Aagboot’s adventurism attracted the attention of high-profile Qasu Udhara, the gold smuggler from Baba Bhit, an island near Karachi harbour. Barefoot smuggler Qasu Udhara had free access to the corridors of power, and he conveniently rubbed shoulders with the elite who ran the affairs of Pakistan during the reign of Major-General Iskandar Mirza, forerunner to Field Marshal Ayub Khan.

Qasu Udhara spotted G. N. Aagboot fishing alone at the high seas miles away from the shore, and that too not in a reasonable yacht. Qasu Udhara patronized him, and then owned him. He became Qasu’s trusted carrier. Thereafter, G. N. Aagboot did not look back. He began sailing in power-propelled vessels and explored the vastness of the Arabian Sea, and then Bay of Bengal.

As if not content with his adventures at the Arabian Sea and the Bay of Bengal, G. N. Aagboot went past Maldives, Sri Lanka, Andaman and Nicobar Islands, Java, and Sumatra on his way to exploits in southeast Asian, and east African coastal countries. He did not restrict himself to gold smuggling alone. He indulged in drug trafficking, and weapons, and developed intimate relations with the underworld dons. Back home in Pakistan he was either feared or patronized by corrupt bureaucracy and politicians.

In his heyday G. N. Aagboot experienced a devastating shock of his lifetime. Two of his four sons died of a mysterious disease in the rain forests of Indonesia. He took them to every part of the world for treatment, engaged best available doctors, but to no avail. They died an extremely painful death in the presence of physicians and the surgeons his enormous wealth could summon. He had hardly recovered from the tragic death of his two sons when his third son was murdered in Pataya (Thailand) by a southpaw over a prostitute. His fourth son took to drugs and became a chronic heroin addict.

G. N. Aagboot, the iron man, was shattered from within. He was hounded by hallucinations. No pills could send him to sleep. Unidentified cries from nowhere kept him awake the whole night. He receded in acute depression coupled with indescribable fears. His mental malady instigated wrath of physical ailments on him. Hypertension and diabetes paved the way for his multiple heart problems.

When a wealthy person crumbles like an empire he is visited by hoards of hyenas and vultures. They dug their sharp teeth and projected beaks into G. N. Aagboot’s flesh and bones. Parasites in disguise sucked his blood. Hakeems of all types approached him with the assurance for his rejuvenated return to his adventurous life. The mod maulvis (clergy) surrounded him for his spiritual revival. With the passage of time G. N. Aagboot recovered from the setbacks he had received, and returned to his occupation, but with a difference. He allocated generous grants for madressahs and orphanages, and funded the education for the needy. He established free dispensaries, maternity homes and child-care centres. On the construction of monumental mosques he spent lavishly.

I was introduced to G. N. Aagboot a decade ago by my friend Sadiq Ahmad, a first class cricketer turned highbrow bureaucrat. Sadiq Ahmed is haughty, naughty and notoriously corrupt, but not for his friends with whom he had played cricket at Jehangir Park. He remains extremely nice to the friends from his distant past. When Ahmed took me along to his palatial bungalow for the first time G. N. Aagboot had already earned the title of Darvesh Baba. For his servants, waiters, cooks, drivers, visitors, formal and informal guests, friends and foes he was Darvesh Baba, and was addressed as such by everyone.

I have no intention to run into trouble for the sake of one story. Therefore, I won’t disclose the names of the famous men and women from advertising, showbiz, politics, bureaucracy, business, finance, banking and the underworld giggling and hugging each other at Darvesh Baba’s extravaganza New Year’s celebrations. They drank like fish from Darvesh Baba’s well stocked bar and squeezed pleasure from each passing moment of the colourful night. During the fun-filled night I saw a white-moustached G. N. Aagboot alias Darvesh Baba sitting in his reclining couch with a thick black cigar held between his fingers that he smoked occasionally. He was watching the celebrations with a detached involvement.

I sat by his side on the floor and said, “Excuse me, sir.” He looked at me affectionately and smiled.

“Your name Aagboot fascinates me,” I said and asked: “What does it mean, sir?”

“It is local name for a steamer,” Darvesh Baba sucked at his cigar and said, “It is an obsolete vessel for the seafarers of today.”

After remaining silent for some time he recited Ghalib’s couplet, “Badal kar faqeeron ka hum bhes Ghalib/ Tamasha-i-ahl-i-karam dekhtay hain.”

He rose from his couch and disappeared in his retiring room.