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people had lathis and rods. Pathan had only four men, while Mastan had ten. Despite the Pathan’s guptis and rampuris, Mastan managed to overpower him. Finally, a bleeding and battered Pathan and his acolytes had to run for their lives. This occasion of triumph further added to Mastan’s fame and growing clout within the coolie community.
    And Ghalib’s admiration and respect for Mastan grew and he started giving him a percentage of his profit, rather than tipping him. Mastan became Ghalib’s 10 per cent partner and the Arab began to teach him how gold was to be valued and tested, as well as how it should be imported or sold off in local markets.
    Soon after, in 1950, Morarji Desai, the chief minister of Bombay presidency, imposed prohibition of liquor and other contraband in the state. With such imposition in place, the mafia had a brilliant opportunity to increase their profits—provide the illegal goods not available to interested customers at exorbitant prices.
    This was the time when Ghalib and Mastan came into their full form. Within months of the imposition, they started raking in money. Mastan bought himself a bicycle. Soon, he managed to buy a house of his own. He became the leader of the coolies in the early fifties, but his joy did not last long. Ghalib was arrested by the police and customs authorities for smuggling and evasion of duty, and Mastan’s dreams of success were shattered prematurely.
    A legendary tale is told about Mastan’s rise after the years of Ghalib’s arrest. Mastan, who at the time of Ghalib’s arrest had just taken delivery of a box of gold biscuits on behalf of Ghalib, toyed with the idea of disposing of the box and decamping with the money. The thought of whether he should use the money to get more material from Eden or whether he should leave the box intact for Ghalib to return tormented him for a while. Finally, his father’s lessons showed him the path to take. Tempted as he was, Mastan did not embezzle the money. The box remained in his house—hidden and untouched.
    Ghalib had been sentenced to three years imprisonment. Mastan returned to his life of helping small-time coolies and smugglers for these three years. Ghalib, after he served his sentence returned a broken man. In those three years, he had suffered huge losses fighting his case. His family was also in trouble. He was contemplating investing in horses for the derby, or starting a hotel or even relocating to Dubai, which was his hometown. He could not make up his mind, on which would be the best option.
    For weeks Ghalib remained confused and he tried to sell off his property to support his lifestyle. It was in this confused state of affairs, that he met his old employee one day. Mastan caught hold of Ghalib’s hand and took him to a small house in the Madanpura ghetto, where Mastan showed him the wooden crate that had remained unopened for three years. It was very discreetly hidden below heaps of dirty clothes.
    ‘Alhamdolillah, glory to God, it is incredible. How did you manage to hide it for three years?’ Ghalib exclaimed, his eyes popping with disbelief as he stared at the crate brimming with sparkling gold biscuits. ‘Thieves or government officials will always look for valuables in well-protected trunks carefully secured with a lock. They would never think of checking a carelessly abandoned crate beneath a pile of dirty clothes,’ Mastan explained with a triumphant smile. ‘Why didn’t you take this gold for yourself and disappear from the city? Nobody would have missed you. You would have been a rich man, Bambai ka baadshah [emperor of Bombay]!’ Ghalib screwed up his eyes, still trying to understand through the incredulity in his brain. ‘My father always taught me that I could escape everyone, but I would never escape the Creator. I believe I can still become bambai ka baadshah someday,’ Mastan replied quietly.
    The words, spoken with faith and confidence, brought tears to Ghalib’s eyes. He