Dunking Ink (3)

A Big Game Fishing boat roared its twin inboard engines cooking the waters in south harbour. A Rodman 40 ft deep sea fibreglass model of 2006 that belonged to Colonel Dirty Harry who sat at a distance on a giant black motorcycle. He owned five yachts and another two boats getting built in Ingraìdeu. He watched Moha and two crew members climb the boat. Soon, it turned out of the breakwater passage and head course to east. With awning over the flying bridge, radar on towing tower, twin antennas and equipped with Shimano Tiagra rod and reels, it stood tall like a three-storey building. With a fully stocked bar, this boat was called Don Manica.

Five-thirty and the sun would set in forty-five minutes. By then the boat disappeared beyond Gadukol heading to the open sea; the Indian Ocean.

200 km away they set in the dark with lights out. A waning gibbous moon climbed in the night sky full of stars. Around nine-thirty, they saw a faint light of a signal coming from a boat and the radio silence broke off.

“Ruba calling Shikar!”

The boat captain replied, “We see you clearly. We are coming in three minutes.”

In few minutes, Don Manica was alongside Ruba at this rendezvous point outside the terrestrial waters of the archipelagic nation. This Rodman was bigger than the wooden craft that arrived. It was a brief stop. They hastily lowered some crate boxes to the sole of Don Manica and within minutes sped away.

Many Iranian boats were caught in these waters fishing illegally or some trafficking drugs. Somehow, they always managed to get away after court hearings showing no evidence to coastguard claims. In recent times, hard-line religious groups leading in politics took control over several government bureaus and most significantly…the customs, the courts, Islamic Affairs, immigration and the Home Ministry. Many offenders could simply walk out of the criminal court for having no proof to police reports. This nation was badly affected by narcotics brought into the country. All came through one international airport and yet the customs could barely catch a peddler.

And it’s written beside every conveyor belt at the airport, ‘Alcohol is prohibited. Not any product with even a small amount of alcohol must be carried.’ Who would not bring a bottle of perfume on holiday! In other words, the entire number of tourists coming into the country are accused for carrying an illegal product.

Family Court and immigration counters treated an Asian like a dog and asked no question to a white skin. Police under the Ministry of Home Affairs swore that they would stand up for religion first. And only Islamic Affairs described religion, rather materialism, that served their own greed. All those learned scholars holding PhDs from Mecca or Lahore were a bearded bunch of guys belonging to the men-only club and none with conscience. And they bluntly cry, “We scholars tell what you may do.”

A generation curtained behind the Black Flag.

Radar scouts at the coastguard unit could detect boat movements. There could be no boats outside Hululé, the airport island, except fishing vessels and of course, Big Game Fishing boats. There lay no terra firma due east across the Indian Ocean to Sumatra over 3000 kilometres away. However, Colonel Harry could manipulate with the radars at the HQ.

The captain of the vessel with no name, dubbed Ruba, knew it. Tariq told his crew, “Time we knock them in the night.” He turned the boat and set course towards Diffushi Muli on the east extremes of North Malé Atoll.

At midnight, he spotted a fast boat approaching. He revved the engine and dangled a nylon fishing net to wrap around its propeller. Bearings got shot, drip glands ripped up, gears stripped and the engine jumped out its mounts.

“Shompot!” cried a crew, “What the hell?”

Tariq fired an expired flare just in time the fast boat reached them. It glowed and died prematurely. Tariq threw it into water and it continued to burn somehow. He ignited another, “Throw them a line! Remember…I do the talking…”

Searchlights lit up the wooden craft. Seven crew on the boat pulled their hands up. Some marines climbed and checked the decks. All the decks were empty except for fish caught from the seas. Tariq claimed a fishing net wrapped around his propeller.

Apparently, the coastguard vessel failed to carry night vision aid besides, Tariq was too smart to complete his mission without letting the marines notice. His boat was captured under a distress signal.

Even Tariq didn’t know the contents of the shipment transferred to Don Manica. However, he knew it was worth to get a new boat once back home in Konarak. His boat was towed to the capital and lay in the north waters. Three days later, the captain and his crew walked out of the court as free men. Three weeks later, Tariq fixed his boat and left for home.

Don Manica rested in Hulumalé mooring among hundreds of yachts. It was the last shipment from Tehran and Moha knew it was counterfeit money. He came home and asked his mother about Firal.

“She slipped out at four in the morning,” Moha’s mother told him.

Not far from home, Soda arrived and picked her on his motorbike. He took her to his lodge. Kidki noticed the pair of jogging shoes by the steps.

Moha said, “I’ve got to spook her somehow from leaving home at midnight.”

“If you really mean it,” expressed his mother, “I can put a spell on her.”