Artist, author, cartoonist, playwright and former Dongri resident Aabid Surti's bare-all 'jugalbandi' biography features two fascinating characters --underworld kingpin Iqbal Rupani and the author himself. Both lives, despite having common origins, took opposite turns, for better and for worse
Artist, author, cartoonist, playwright and former Dongri resident Aabid Surti's bare-all 'jugalbandi' biography features two fascinating characters -- underworld kingpin Iqbal Rupani and the author himself. Both lives, despite having common origins, took opposite turns, for better and for worse
If Spike Lee were to make a film on Mumbai's ghettos and its famous residents, Aabid Surti should be considered to author the screenplay. The multifaceted author says Sufi, a dual biography that hits bookstores this week, is being made into a film. "It's in the planning stages. The Aditya Dhar-directed film will feature Prateik Babbar and Chitrangada Singh." 
Surti says Dongri has undergone a sea change and lacks the vibe that
it once exuded. PICS/ RANE ASHISH
Sufi is an insightful look at Mumbai's underworld and its tryst with the big guns, from Karim Lala to Haji Mastan, Varadarajan Mudaliyar and Dawood Ebrahim. Based on real episodes and people, the narrative follows the early days of organised crime in Mumbai. Years later, while Surti has emerged as a gifted writer and artist, Iqbal Rupani turned into a kingpin.
FILMI FLASHBACK
In the late 1980s, Surti delayed the idea of writing his biography. "I received offers from several publishers but thought it would be drab for readers. Then, I bumped into Sufi (Iqbal Rupani) at a Bandra mosque, where my cousin's nikaah was taking place. Like me, he had also shifted from Dongri to Bandra. We spoke of our past, and it ignited the idea to write a jugalbandi (dual) biography. It's a novel concept of two lives that run parallel," he reveals.
Surti says the book's title emerged from Rupani's first visit to Surti's Bandra home. When he dropped by, they chatted on theology -- namaaz and yoga -- which intrigued Surti's mother (who was in the adjoining room) enough to ask later if a Sufi (a religious expert on Islam) had come visiting since he sounded like an enlightened man. The name stuck.
GANGSTA RAP
Through the pages, the reader crisscrosses three decades, from the 1930s to the 1960s, tasting the right mix of masala, thrill and cine-glorified Mumbai chhaap. So how did Surti tackle this challenging proposition? "I had to be neutral. Once a week, on a Thursday or Friday, I would interview him, draft the chapter and get it reviewed by Iqbal. Of course, I always crosschecked facts with other sources." This practice was followed for a couple of years. Luckily for Surti, his subject was forthcoming in his revelations. "Sufi maintained that he wasn't responsible for his deeds. He would say, 'Uski (Allah's) marzi ke bagair, ek patta nahin girta'. My belief is contrary. I am responsible for what I do."
What Surti was sure about was that he didn't want to glamourise the underworld.
ARTIST'S IMPRESSION
Surti didn't allow his chronicle to get overawed in the company of the kingpin. There are charming insights into his life: His first brush with comics and cartoons occurred when a "white soldier" dropped a tattered Walt Disney comic book from a moving train. His first cartoon strip was accepted by Gujarati publication Chitralekha when he was just 15, and a young Dharmendra cajoled him into sipping his first peg when he was a screenwriter in the Hindi film industry.
The importance of finding a mentor was timely and life changing for Surti. "I'm glad Dr RJ Chinwala moulded my talent and drew me away from alcohol, drugs and smuggling. Most boys in Dongri fell prey to these vices. Even Iqbal once confessed, 'I wish I had met you as a friend at the right time; I would've probably not taken this path.'"
THE DONGRI DOSSIER
So while the reader gets a fascinating look into Mumbai in its smuggling heydays, when cops and robbers played hide-and-seek in the docks and gallis of central Mumbai, we wonder where does Dawood Ebrahim figure? "He was just another tapori who played marbles with the other boys in Dongri's mohallas. He wasn't all that daring. He'du00a0 never retaliate when he was threatened. Nobody imagined he would become this big. His father (Sheikh Ebrahim), a policeman, was a family friend, and young Dawood would tag along with him when he'd visit us home. After his death, when Dawood moved away, he still made social calls to our family, irrespective of where he was hiding," says Surti.
Surti's uncle, Mohammad Hussain, was like a one-man NGO: "he helped everybody, had no enemies and lived a clean life. It was his goodwill that resulted in Dawood showing his concern."
Today, Dongri isn't anything like it was, says Surti who now lives in Mira Road. "It's polluted and unrecognisable. Truck drivers rule the roost. Khoja Mohalla, which extended from Dongri to Masjid Bunder, was so called because of the Khoja Muslims who inhabited the stretch. Sufi and I are also Khojas. Today, not a single Khoja family remains."
Remember Bahadur?
"After Independence, editors here were desperate for an Indian comic book hero. Till then, readers were fed on Western heroes like Phantom and Mandrake. I was fascinated by the Chambal Valley's landscape. The dacoits and locals who united to ward them off," says Surti. Bahadur was born from here. The kurta-sporting, jeep-driving desi comic strip hero along with companion Bela first appeared in 1976, and wowed Indian comic book buffs for almost a decade.
EXTRACTS FROM SUFI
Chapter 4, pgs 41-42
Sometimes, we would go on a joy ride in suburban trains throughout the day and at other times, we would visit the docks. We would run like beggars after the trains carrying soldiers returning from World War II. (These trains were connected to the docks and moved slowly.)
From the train windows, the white soldiers would throw a piece of chocolate, a few coins or a packet of cigarettes. Then the smoke-belching train would move away far into the distance. My ragged friends and I would sit on the tracks, divide the gifts amongst ourselves, luxuriously smoke the imported cigarettes and eat a piece of chocolate to hide the smell.
After a month, my mother came to know about my adventures. First, she thrashed me and then started crying, "I toil day and night so that you can pursue your studies," she reminded me between sobs. "I wash dishes and clothes of the entire neighbourhood and grind chillies. My heart grieves when I see you loafing in the town like a stray dog."
My heart melted. I started attending school regularly from the next day. That day, I also had a time-worn Disney comic along with my textbooks. A white soldier had thrown it to me from the running train and I had caught it.u00a0
Those days, comic books did not flood the Indian market the way they do today. Like a rare bird, a foreign comic would make its appearance once a while. It was the first time I had seen a comic book. And a tattered one at that.
This major event in my childhoodu00a0-- one that prompted me to change the course of my life -- had arrived most unexpectedly. During the snack-break, I was trying to copy Mickey Mouse in different poses from the comic book. A classmate sitting beside me told me that a 'big' artist resided near his house and that me made large paintings.
"How big?" I asked.
He spread his hands wide and said, "Bigger than this."
The same evening, instead of going home, I accompanied my friends, whose next door neighbour was Dr R.J. Chinwala. His house was a haven for creative people. Photographers, painters and men of letters gathered there almost daily to discuss various topics on art and literature. Once a month, a budding poet would present his poems before the august gathering.
Not only that, he had provided accommodation in his three bedroom hall apartment to an Urdu writer, who had come from Hyderabad to try his luck in the film industry, and to a painter from Gujarat who was in search of a place to start his work. The Urdu writer was Mushtaq Jalili (the writer of films like Ek Phool Do Maali and Avtaar) and the painter was Yusuf Dhala.
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Chapter 5, pgs 52-53
Iqbal forced his way through the crowd and reached the first floor. One thing was certain: The sacks kept in the room had to be disposed off as soon as possible. However, where to dump the sacks? If the sacks were thrown from the window down into the gutter, there would be a big thump. There was no time for emptying the bottles into the drain. Every sack had three dozen bottles. It would at least a few hours to empty nearly two thousand bottles.
The cops were to climb up after finishing the search of the houses on the ground floor. Iqbal's room was on the first floor. If the smuggled liquor was found in his room, not just him but Gul Banu would be arrested and he wanted to protect his mother.
Finally, he said, "Maa, you leave immediately. Leave this house."
Sufi: The Invisible Man of the Underworld, Aabid Surti, Diamond Books, Rs 150. Available at leading bookstores
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