17th JUNE 2015 UNDERWORLD

PART I

1

The Big D

ower flows from the barrel of a gun. Ask Dawood Hasan Ibrahim Kaskar: he is not just an attestation to this power, he is living testimony to its omnipresence.

PIndia’s mafia export to the world, now living in hiding somewhere in Pakistan, underworld leader Dawood Ibrahim is the most wanted man on the planet.

When Dawood, leader of the infamous criminal outfit D Company, was dubbed a global terrorist by the US Treasury Depar tment in 2004, there were no furrows in the brows of his henchmen, spread all over the globe. They said the United States had reaffir med the numero uno status of their boss who, according to them, believes from the depth of his twisted heart that he is on par with the President of the United States And so for many years, Dawood would name all his villas ‘The White House’. He had one in Dubai until 1994, and when he shifted base to Karachi, his new headquar ters became The White House; and there was another White House in London. Like the original White House incumbent, Dawood juggles deals with several countries—the difference being that most of the people he deals with are the shadowy ones who fuel the black economy of most countries. Wanted by India for various crimes including master minding the 1993 Bombay serial bombings in which 257 people died and over 700 others were wounded, Dawood is also suspected of having provided logistical support for the 26/11 terrorist attack in the city.

In the years after he left Indian shores in 1986, the ganglord kept pining for his home country and made many attempts to stage a comeback. So while in enforced exile in Dubai, Dawood would recreate India in Dubai or Sharjah, by getting Bollywood stars to dance to his tunes or cricketers to do his bidding in his adopted country of residence.

Dawood had managed a pleasant lifestyle, a home away from home. But he would frequently send feelers about his wish to retur n to India through some politicians whom he was close to; it would be stonewalled, he would try again, and so on.

Then the March 1993 serial bomb blasts happened and Dawood realised that he had to finally cut the umbilical cord. Named as one of the accused, Dawood understood that he had no hopes of ever retur ning to his motherland. His rise to inter national fame began after 1992; until then he was chiefly involved in real estate; gold, silver, and electronics smuggling; and drug trafficking.

Dawood loved Mumbai and was the quintessential Mumbai boy, sharing with the city its zeal for living and ability to persist in the face of adversity. On the other hand, Pakistan beckoned and it was offering him refuge, a new name, a new identity, a new passpor t, a new life, if not much else. There was a catch of course; he would be a pawn in their hands. But then he was Dawood Ibrahim, he would change Pakistan and make the country dance to his tunes, he thought.

Since he held the purse strings, this would not be a problem. So, leaving his beloved Mumbai behind, he chose to cross borders.

And so began Dawood’s new jour ney with India’s arch enemy, Pakistan. In the last for ty years, two people have changed the equations between India and Pakistan; one is Dawood Ibrahim and the other was for mer president of Pakistan General Zia-ul-Haq. If Zial-ul-Haq got Salafi Islam to Kashmir and changed the Sufi Kashmiris of India by giving more impetus to militancy in Kashmir, Dawood Ibrahim has soured the relations between the two countries to the point of no return.

The situation has become a standing joke. The Indian gover nment has been shrilly seeking custody of Ibrahim, and Pakistan, with a straight face, has been denying that he is on their soil. But he manages to be Pakistan’s trump card, to be used against India every once in a while. Both countries are aware that Dawood holds the key to the peace process between India and Pakistan.

In Karachi, Dawood initially lived in a Clifton neighbourhood bungalow, his local White House. But when he had a son called Moin, after having had three daughters in a row (Mahrooq, Mahreen, and Mazia), he built a sprawling mansion called Moin Palace in the same neighbourhood, in celebration of a long-awaited male heir. Moin Palace is the most guarded villa in the area today, with a huge posse of Karachi Rangers on round the clock vigil. The house boasts opulent Swarovski crystal showpieces, has a waterfall, a temperature controlled swimming pool, a tennis cour t, a billiard cour t, and a jogging track. His special guests are housed in Moin Palace while other less important ones are accommodated in a guesthouse in the vicinity of the Palace.

Obviously, Dawood lives life king size. His dapper suits are from Savile Row, London. A collector of timepieces, he wears exclusive Patek Philippe wristwatches and sometimes Cartier diamond studded ones, all worth lakhs of rupees. He smokes Treasurer cigarettes and wears Maserati sunglasses, sports shoes from Bally and signs with a diamond-studded pen that must be wor th more than 5 lakh rupees. Dawood has a fleet of cars, but moves about in a black bomb-proof Mercedes. When he is on the move a cordon of Pak Rangers escorts him, putting the security of the Pakistani president to shame.

But all the wealth in the world cannot guarantee you a good night’s sleep. Dawood is an insomniac; he drags himself home only in the wee hours of the day if he has not brought the par ty home already. He sleeps during the day and works in the evening. He often throws lavish mujras (dance recitals) for Pakistani politicians and bureaucrats, a former caretaker prime minister of Pakistan included.

Those who have met him at his villa say that various chief ministers of Pakistani provinces were found queuing for an audience with him in his waiting hall.

Even those who were made to wait for hours at a stretch did not murmur a word in protest though; one meeting with the don could change their fortunes.

Dawood owns various proper ties scattered across Pakistan including the Khayabane Shamsheer area and the main avenue of Shah Rahe Faisal in Karachi and Madina Market in Lahore. He also has a home in Orkazai near Peshawar. Starlets from Pakistan receive his special attention and are more than willing to entertain him.

Despite being in Pakistan, he still calls the shots in India. Until some time back, Indian movie moguls and gutkha barons asked him to arbitrate disputes. And in Mumbai, many businesses—from real estate to airlines—carry the invisible Dawood logo. In that sense, he has not let go of Mumbai. He operates several real Mumbai, many businesses—from real estate to airlines—carry the invisible Dawood logo. In that sense, he has not let go of Mumbai. He operates several real estate projects and companies in Mumbai via remote control. The police and politicians from India are still in touch with the don; many policemen in Mumbai have in fact lost their jobs after they were exposed as having links with his gang.

Dawood is 5 foot 11 inches with a menacing gaze. So what makes the man tick? He has presence; there is the way he talks, a kind of char m with a convincing quality about it; our very own All Pacino.

Bor n on 26 December 1955, Dawood is now 56 years old. His look has undergone a sea change—he has lost a lot of hair and he does not spor t a thick moustache anymore due to the constant threats on his life and its easy recognisability; it had earlier ear ned him the nickname of ‘Mucchad’ in the Mumbai underworld. Affluence and age have increased his waistline and the paunch is visible though not overly offending. For a man of 56, he looks fit.

The boss of the D Company is a billionaire many times over and it is said that his parallel economy keeps Pakistan afloat. It is also said that he bailed out Pakistan’s Central Bank during a crisis in 2000. His net worth is allegedly more than 6 billion rupees.

Dawood’s mafia connections are extensive and his business interests span many countries including India, Nepal, Pakistan, Thailand, South Africa, Indonesia, Malaysia, United Kingdom, the United Arab Emirates, Singapore, Sri Lanka, Ger many, and France, and areas such as ‘franchises’ in the fields of drug trafficking and gambling dens.

In Karachi, Dawood Ibrahim is the uncrowned king, controlling the city’s gun running business, the stock exchange, the parallel credit system business, and many real estate holdings in the city. He trades in the Karachi bourse and in the hundi (hawala) system. He has invested heavily in the Sehgal Group and is very close to Javed Miandad, son-in-law of one of the Sehgal brothers. Dawood has also married his daughter Mahrukh to Javed Miandad’s son, Junaid.

He has thir teen aliases, one of them being Sheikh Dawood Hassan. In Pakistan, this is his identity. Some of them also call him David or Bhai. In Mumbai or Delhi, when he used to call friends, the person who made the call for him introduced him as Haji Sahab or Amir Sahab.

The D Company has many businesses in Mumbai and, it is believed, carries out billions of dollars of operations in Mumbai alone, much of it in Bollywood and real estate. Dawood is believed to control much of the hawala system, which is a very commonly used unofficial route for transferring money and remittances outside the purview of official agencies. Its turnover is much bigger than Western Union and Moneygram put together.

Dawood is the ultimate twenty-first century businessman: ruthless with his competitors but generous to those who are loyal. He knows how to manipulate relationships with his cadre, the mafia, the terrorist networks, and with the bigwigs in the Pakistan government and the ISI.

Strange that a man with so much talent and potential ended up being an antelope on the savannah, a prisoner of another country, a pawn, one that is being played by both Pakistan and many other countries including the USA, who are aware of his activities in Pakistan. Strange that the man who had the guts to take on the might of the humongous Pathan syndicate has botched his chances for a life. Dawood has managed to tur n the tide in his favour on several occasions in the past.

It is said that now, he is deliberately lying low.

In retrospect, perhaps Dawood’s status as a fugitive and an outlaw beyond the reach of the Indian legal system suits many back home in India. Empires built with his money would collapse and many skeletons would tumble out of the closet if he was ever brought back home. The powers that be would rather have Dawood Ibrahim stuck in Pakistan. And so the cult of Dawood will be perpetuated. Movies with his trademark moustache and the cigar tucked in between his lips will continue to be made, and Dawood will be discussed between India and Pakistan forever. The man, of course, will forever be elusive; the real Dawood may remain a myth. This book is an attempt to understand what is known of him and his world.

2

In the Beginning: Bombay 1950–1960

ven in the fifties, people from all over India were drawn to Bombay like a moth to the flame. The city had ear ned a reputation for its nur turing abilities, in the Eway it welcomes in all newcomers who get the opportunity to grow in their lives. It never seemed short of resources and, despite the influx, it was growing in affluence, power, and impor tance. Like in New York of yore, which drew the masses into its embrace, poor youth from all par ts of the country were landing in Bombay by the droves. From the nor th, boys from India’s more rural states like Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh began descending on the city. There were few Biharis though, because until then, the Biharis regarded Calcutta (present day Kolkata) as the golden bowl and refused to look beyond the easter n capital of the country. Uttar Pradesh residents however, were sharp enough to figure out the difference between Calcutta and Mumbai. After all, Calcutta was more of a socialist set-up, where new enterprises would find it difficult to flourish, unlike in Mumbai. Also, Mumbai has always been the financial capital of the country, and has always been known as the land of oppor tunity. Escaping a life limited to ploughing their fields, these nor th Indians rooted for Mumbai hands down. The boys were mainly from Allahabad, Kanpur, Rampur, and Jaunpur in UP. At the time, the population of south Mumbai was pegged at a meagre two lakh.

The nor th Indian migrants began living in ghettos of their own, divided on the basis of the cities and villages back home. But slowly the boys realised that without education they could not make much headway in the city of gold; thus a few frustrated youth tur ned towards the task of acquiring easy money. As Napoleon Hill said, necessity may be the mother of invention but it is also the father of crime.

In those days, the easiest crime to perpetrate was accosting late night travellers or families and relieving them of their valuables. The ar t of picking pockets was yet to be lear nt and perfected. Wielding a shiny blade of a knife, sword, or chopper was enough to send shivers down the spine of peace-loving citizens of Mumbai. The criminals were emboldened when a few crimes went undetected; it was regarded as the success of their modus operandi. And soon, other players entered the fray.

According to records maintained at the Byculla Police Station in south Bombay, Nanhe Khan, who hailed from Allahabad, was the first history-sheeter, who threatened people with a long knife and robbed them of valuables.

Soon, sometime in the fifties, other natives of Allahabad joined hands with Nanhe Khan and the group came to be christened the ‘Allahabadi gang’. Nanhe Khan found lieutenants in Wahab Pehelwan and Chinka Dada. Moreover, Chinka Dada was technologically savvy and possessed something his boss never even dreamt of; two country-made revolvers at the either side, tucked in his belt.

Byculla was regarded as the epicentre of criminal activities at the time. Even in those days, Byculla residents were either Christians or Muslims. The Byculla Police Station divided the stronghold of two communities: the left hand side, that is the east side, which comprised the Byculla zoo and railway station, was the Christian dominion, while the right side, which includes the present day Sankli Street stretching till Byculla station west on one side and Nagpada on the other, was predominantly Muslim.

You cannot have a gang without an adversary gang. While Byculla don Nanhe Khan and Wahab Pehelwan were busy getting their names per manently embedded in the pages of police rosters, three Christian brothers from the Christian por tion of Byculla were giving them sleepless nights. The brothers leading the Johnny gang were known as Bada Johnny, Chhota Johnny, and Chikna Johnny; the youngest was fair and good looking, hence the epithet ‘Chikna’ Johnny. The Allahabadi gang and the Johnny gang often engaged in skirmishes and a miniature turf war soon broke out between them.

But when the gang graduated from street-level crime to drug trafficking with the Pathans, they left behind a void in the Byculla area which soon tur ned into more turf wars between two budding gangs in the area: the Kanpuri gang and the Rampuri gang. These two gangs, however, could never make it big because they lacked the required chutzpah; the police and the Criminal Investigation Depar tment (CID) soon neutralised them with quick arrests and an intensive crackdown. The Rampuri gang—before beating a hasty retreat from the Mumbai crime scene—left behind a relic: a long foldable knife with sharp edges on one side. The knife could be folded and hidden in the trouser pockets and it was meant to be thrust in the rib cage to savagely tear apar t the innards of the stomach from one end to another. This lethal knife became known as ‘Rampuri Chaaku’. And to date, the Rampuri Chaaku is the first weapon of the neophyte gangster in Mumbai.

None of these turf wars had ever tur ned very ugly or communal. Eventually, though, in the late fifties, the Johnny gang was sucked into communal frenzy in its engagement with another group—Ibrahim Dada’s gang. After the Allahabadi gang bowed out of petty crime, the new incumbent, Ibrahim Dada managed to fend off other gangs on the rise by the sheer force of his charisma. Rival gangs like Kanpuri, Jaunpuri, and Rampuri had few educated young people in their ranks whereas Ibrahim Dada was the first matriculate amongst them, a well-dressed gangster who could speak English.

Popular gangster lore has it that when Ibrahim Dada had gone to the American Consulate at Peddar Road to meet a friend at the consulate he met the receptionist, Maria. Fair Maria could not resist the raw appeal of the tall, robust, and brawny Ibrahim. It was love at first sight. Soon Maria began visiting Ibrahim at his residence on Sankli Street.

When Bada Johnny’s spies infor med him of the budding love affair between Maria and Ibrahim, Johnny Dada was furious. He accosted Ibrahim once and war ned him, ‘Tum ek Christian ladki ko lekar kyun bahar jate ho [why do you go out with a Christian girl]? Stop seeing that girl at once.’ Ibrahim remained unruffled and in reply began singing the popular Bollywood song from the blockbuster of those days, Dilip Kumar-Madhubala starrer Mughal-e-Azam, Jab pyar kiya to darna kya, pyar kiya koi chori nahin ki, ghut-ghut kar yon mar na kya [Why fear when you’re in love. You have loved and not committed a crime, so why hide?]). It left Johnny fuming and helpless. He tried to scare Maria off by invoking religious sentiments, but to no avail.

Soon Ibrahim and Maria were married and the girl embraced Islam. This enraged Johnny Dada, who saw their union and subsequent conversion as a personal humiliation. This behaviour eventually led to his downfall because until then, Mumbai’s crime lords had never allowed communal feelings to interfere with humiliation. This behaviour eventually led to his downfall because until then, Mumbai’s crime lords had never allowed communal feelings to interfere with business.

Muslim boys began deser ting Johnny’s gang and joined ranks with Ibrahim’s, weakening the older gang’s muscle power and clout. Johnny’s reputation took another beating when his agents and pimps, some of whom were Muslim, refused to pay up his share of their spoils to Johnny and sought refuge, instead, with Ibrahim Dada.

Johnny decided to take matters in his own hands. One day when Ibrahim was alone, he cor nered him with a group of his hoodlums near Bombay Central station, and assaulted him with lathis, iron rods, and knives. Ibrahim was severely battered at first but soon summoned his reser ves of strength and rallied, attacking Johnny and his men. Though they all escaped eventually, some of them were injured grievously.

Ibrahim decided to teach Johnny a lesson. He cor nered Johnny in the Kamathipura area one day and challenged him to a one-on-one dual. Ibrahim beat his adversary mercilessly, humiliating him, and leaving him on the verge of death. His retaliation was finally effected: Johnny then disappeared from the scene.

Both his brothers also met an equally tragic end. Chhota Johnny used to terrorise the shopkeepers and loot their cash boxes at the end of the day. The hapless shopkeepers, mere traders by profession, could not summon enough strength or resources to retaliate. But, the story goes, a Bohra shopkeeper decided to take care of Chhota Johnny at last, even if it meant losing his life in the process. The shopkeeper devised a crude, makeshift weapon by fitting nails on the end of a stick. Chhota Johnny had become so careless in his confidence that unlike others of his ilk he did not even carry any weapons on his person, and when he staggered in, inebriated, the shopkeeper assaulted him mercilessly. He continued to hit him until Chhota Johnny collapsed on the ground in a pool of blood; witnesses recall that he continued to hit him long after he was dead. Fellow traders were surprised; Bohras are Gujarati Muslims, essentially a trader community found in all cor ners of the world plying their trade peacefully, simple businessmen who rarely tur n violent. But something in the man had broken, it was evident. The shopkeeper was booked for manslaughter but the police made a weak case against him and let him off.

Chikna Johnny, the Casanova of the family, became the ringleader of his own fledgling gang. His story ended when he failed to retur n from a picnic with his girls. He had gone to the Gorai beach with some girlfriends and drowned while swimming. With even the runt of the family gone, the gang ceased to exist and its members switched loyalties and merged with other gangs like the Jaunpuri gang, the Kashmiri gang, and some other stray ones.

Meanwhile, Ibrahim Dada was arrested on murder charges in another case and convicted. He was sentenced to life imprisonment. Maria continued to live in his house at Sankli Street and gave bir th to his son. With Ibrahim Dada behind bars, Johnny Dada doing the disappearing act, and the neutralisation of other gangs, the star of the Allahabadi gang of Nanhe Khan was on the rise again. The gang had grown in size, numbers, clout and money, and came into focus.

Kamathipura, incidentally, has attracted gangsters for business as much as for pleasure. The red-light district housed a Kashmiri betting club run by one Sumitlal Shah who was the personal secretary of Habib Kashmiri, head of the Kashmiri gang. Ahmad Kashmiri, Ayyub Lala, and Feroz Lala too were par t of the gang that operated out of Kamathipura.

Ayyub, incidentally, was also a police infor mant, much to the chagrin of his gang members. Once a fight ensued between him and Habib with the latter reprimanding him for telling on the other gangs. Ayyub on his par t, was justifying that he did so only to remain in the good books of the cops. However, no consolation would placate Habib and they soon split their gangs.

What followed was a constant battle for one-upmanship that resulted in Ahmad kidnapping Ayyub’s lover and Ayyub retaliating by having Ahmad killed. While much of the gang’s time was spent dealing with internal rivalry, elsewhere in Bombay, legendary gangsters were gaining their hold on the city.

3

Bombay’s Midas

astan Haider Mirza was bor n on 1 March 1926 into a far mer’s family in Panankulum, a small village 20 kilometres away from Cuddalore, Tamil Nadu.

M Mastan’s father, Haider Mirza, was a hardworking but impoverished farmer who moved to Bombay with his son after miserably failing to make ends meet in his hometown. Arriving in 1934, they tried their hand at various odd jobs, finally managing to set up a small mechanic shop where they repaired cycles and two-wheelers in Bengalipura, near Crawford Market. The father-son duo laboured hard from eight in the mor ning till late in the night. But 8-year-old Mastan soon realised that even after all this toil, he could only make a meagre 5 rupees a day.

As he walked home to his basti from Crawford Market, he would often walk past the grandiose souther n Bombay area of Grant Road, which housed those mar vellous theatres, Alfred and Novelty. Every time he noticed a huge, sparkling car whizz past him or walked by the plush Malabar Hill bungalows, he would look down at his dir ty soiled hands and wonder if a day would come when he would be able to own these cars and bungalows. This, more than anything else, stirred a cer tain feverish desire in him to think of ways and means to become bigger, richer and more powerful. But uneducated and unskilled, with the additional burden of supporting his family, Mastan could see only a bleak road ahead of him.

When the boy tur ned 18, he boldly decided to quit the cycle repairing business for good to try his hand at something else. Mastan’s father Haider was a very religious man and had always taught him to be honest and industrious. While allowing him to join the workers at the Bombay docks, he reminded Mastan that he had brought him up right and that he would not be around forever to super vise him all the time; hence Mastan must refrain from stealing, fighting, and using dishonest means to better himself.

In 1944, Mastan joined the Bombay dock as a coolie. His job was to unload huge boxes and containers of ships coming from Eden, Dubai, Hong Kong, and other cities. Bombay was not such a large dock at that time but it was still bustling with activity.

As India won its freedom in 1947, Mastan completed three years as a coolie, at the Mazagon docks in Bombay. Mastan, in those three years, saw that the British used to charge impor t duty and that there was a good margin to be made if this impor t duty could be evaded. In those days, Philips transistors and imported watches were hugely popular in Bombay.

Mastan realised that if the goods were never passed through custom, there would be no question of duty, and so, he could instead make a quick buck by passing this evasion on to the owners. And if he helped the owners evade customs duty, they would give him a cut, which, taken into account the numerous goods passing through the customs, tur ned into quite a substantial amount of money for Mastan. To him, this was really not a question of honesty. He believed customs duty was a British legacy and could be justifiably evaded.

Mastan knew that if he could manage to impor t these transistors and watches without paying impor t duty, he could make a small for tune for himself, which would supplement his salary of 15 rupees per month. While he thought out this devious scheme, he serendipitously met a man named Shaikh Mohammed All Ghalib, an Arab by descent. Ghalib was also looking for someone young and energetic who was willing to suppor t him in his illegal activity of evading impor t duty.

At the time, smuggling was not a full-fledged activity and people were not yet aware of the massive amounts of money they could make in the business. The only smuggling operations that existed consisted of small-timers trying to bring in impor ted goods in per missible quantities, which back then consisted of such prize catches as six watches, two gold biscuits, four Philips transistors, and so on.

Ghalib explained to Mastan that it would be easy for him to stash a couple of gold biscuits in his headband, a few watches in his underwear, or a couple of transistors in his turban, as he was a coolie and worked on the ground. Mastan asked him what he would get in retur n for the work. Ghalib promised him a good reward. Both struck up a good rapport and decided to work together.

Within months, Mastan realised that his measly salary of 15 rupees had now become 50 rupees. He began to enjoy his work with Ghalib and soon became known as the Arab’s blue-eyed boy. He was now a coolie to watch out for. Impor tantly, his reputation and the fact that he enjoyed special treatment by an influential and affluent Arab caught the attention of local hoodlums.

One such dada or local goon was Sher Khan Pathan, who at the time used to have his way at the Mazgaon dock. These were the days when there was no unionism at the dock. He would extort money from coolies and anyone who refused to pay would be beaten up by Pathan and his men.

Mastan witnessed this day in and day out. He wondered why someone like Pathan who did not belong to the docks and was not even a coolie or a gover nment ser vant should be allowed to come to the docks and threaten and extor t money from hard working coolies. Enterprising lad that he was, he decided to take on Khan.

Mastan gathered a couple of other strong people, sat with them, and told them that Sher Khan Pathan was also a human being like them. If Sher Khan could beat them up with his own hands, they had the stronger hands of labour: they were tougher and used to hard work. If their strength could collectively be channelled to beat up Pathan and his goons, the coolies could ensure that their community was relieved of the goons.

Next Friday, when Pathan came for his weekly round of extortion, he realised that ten people were missing from the huge queue. Before he could get a grip of the situation, Mastan and ten of his men attacked Pathan and four of his cronies. Pathan had his Rampuri knife and guptis (stiletto) and Mastan and his people had lathis and rods. Pathan had only four men, while Mastan had ten. Despite the Pathan’s guptis andrampuris, Mastan managed to overpower him. Finally, a bleeding and battered Pathan and his acolytes had to run for their lives. This occasion of triumph fur ther added to Mastan’s fame and growing clout within the coolie

and battered Pathan and his acolytes had to run for their lives. This occasion of triumph fur ther added to Mastan’s fame and growing clout within the coolie community.

And Ghalib’s admiration and respect for Mastan grew and he star ted 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 oppor tunity 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 for m. Within months of the imposition, they star ted 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 retur n tor mented 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 retur ned to his life of helping small-time coolies and smugglers for these three years. Ghalib, after he ser ved his sentence retur ned 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 star ting 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 proper ty to suppor t 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 gover nment 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 dir ty 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 realised that in a world plagued by distrust and deception, there were still men, albeit very, very few, who were trustwor thy and honest despite the strongest temptations. ‘I will accept this only on one condition. We shall both share it equally and become partners,’ Ghalib proposed in a rush of gratitude.

Mastan smiled. ‘There is nothing else that I would love more at this moment then to be your friend and partner for life,’ he said, and held out his hand.

The two partners shook hands.

It is a known fact in the world of business and crime that gold in any form could have impurities, but the yellow metal in its biscuit form is regarded to be in its purest. It was a crate full of these yellow biscuits that changed Mastan’s life and made him an overnight millionaire.

In 1955, Mastan was richer by 5 lakh rupees. He did not need to be a coolie or a dockworker any more. He immediately quit his job and decided to take up smuggling as his full-time business. He, along with Ghalib, came up with a scheme of impor ting gold. Ghalib had already told Mastan that they were now 50 per cent partners in the business. Ghalib went to Eden, Dubai, and other African countries and started sending gold, wristwatches, and other valuables to Bombay.

Mastan, by this show of ‘honesty’, had become quite popular in the smuggling community. His clout had grown and he was growing richer.

In 1956, Mastan came in touch with Sukur Narayan Bakhiya, a resident of Daman and also the biggest smuggler in Gujarat. Bakhiya and Mastan also became par tners and they divided cer tain territories among themselves. Mastan used to handle the Bombay por t and Bakhiya used to handle the Daman por t. The smuggled items would come to Daman port from UAE and to Bombay from Eden. Bakhiya’s consignment was taken care of by Mastan.

Mastan recognised early on in life that money alone was not enough to remain powerful in the city. He also needed muscle power if he wanted to establish his supremacy across Bombay. And it is in search of this muscle power that Mastan is later found forging friendships with two of the most renowned musclemen in the city—the unlettered but influential Pathan Karim Lala and the don of central Bombay, Varadarajan Mudaliar alias Vardha bhai.

Haji Mastan.

Photo courtesy: Press Trust of India.

Haji Mastan with his adopted son Sundar Shekhar (right).

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

Dawood Ibrahim with the Pathans after their truce in the eighties.

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

Dawood Ibrahim in later years.

Photo courtesy: Press Trust of India.

Babu Reshim (above), Rama Naik (left), and Arun Gawli (right) of the BRA Gang.

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

Dawood Ibrahim’s elder brother Sabir after being killed on 12 February 1981.

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

Dawood Ibrahim’s younger brother Anees Ibrahim.

Photo courtesy: Press Trust of India.

Manya Surve after being shot dead in an encounter on 23 January 1982.

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

David Pardesi, the assassin of Amirzada.

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

David Pardesi, the assassin of Amirzada.

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

Abdul Kunju, the assassin of Bada Rajan.

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

Dawood Ibrahim with Chhota Rajan before they fell out.

Photo courtesy: MID-DAY.

Chhota Shakeel

Photo courtesy: Press Trust of India.

Chhota Shakeel, Sunil Sawant alias Sautya (left), and Abu Salem (right) are a few of the noted members of D Company.

Photo courtesy: Retired Assistant Commissioner of Mumbai Police (ACP), Ishaq Bagwan.

4

Madrasi Mobster

n a scorching after noon, an industrious young boy from Tamil Nadu was working very hard at the famous Victoria Ter minus as the sun shone down Orelentlessly. Around the same time that Mastan was struggling for his livelihood at the Bombay Port Trust in the dockyards of Bombay, Varadarajan Mudaliar, another coolie, was trying to make a living at the landmark railway terminus.

Both of them were oblivious to the fact that their destinies would be closely inter twined with the other and that their lives would be entrenched in a similarly heady mix of crime, money, and power.

One story in par ticular precedes the ‘Madrasi mobster’ (‘Madrasi’ is a colloquial nor th Indian ter m for a south Indian), alias kala babu. He is said to have changed an institution, and put in its place, another: this was the only time in the history of Bombay’s crime that the ubiquitous cutting chai made way for a cold, dark beverage called kaala paani, across police stations in the city. The fizzy liquid was substituted for chai because of this singular coolie. According to stories from the time, at many police stations across the central belt of Bombay, the chaiwallah (tea-vendor) who brought his daily quota of tea several times a day in chipped glasses would walk in with glasses filled with the fizzy cola instead. The chaiwallah would leave this drink only on the tables of the senior officials in the police station and walk away without charging any money for the drink. In what seemed like an unwritten law, junior officials would immediately clear the room, people who had come to register complaints would be told to empty the premises, and the senior officials would put all other work on hold. The black liquid was a message sent to the officials that kala babu, was on his way to the police station. A policeman, who did not wish to be named, says, ‘Those days, it was his way of saying: I am coming to meet you. Make necessary arrangements. He had the whole force ser ving him.’ Till date, there is no one who ran the mafia the way kala babu did; and his biggest trump card was that he knew people’s weakness, especially that of the system. He was always heard saying, ‘Keep people’s bellies full and balls empty’.

If the anecdote has any truth in it, it is cer tainly fur ther evidence of a phenomenal rags-to-riches story. For this kala babu who star ted his life in the city at the Victoria Terminus station as a cooliewent on to become one of the most powerful Hindu dons to rule over the city.

Varadarajan Muniswami Mudaliar was bor n into a feudal Mudaliar family with scarce means in the small town of Vellore, in Tamil Nadu. It was 1926 and he had begun working when he was just 7 years old as an errand boy at a photography studio at Mount Road in Madras (present day Chennai). He never completed his studies, but was the only boy who could read and write in English and Tamil in his family.

With nothing but a sheer force of aspiration, Varadarajan moved to the city of dreams and settled into one of the lanes adjoining the then Victoria Ter minus.

As much as his hard-working nature brought him under the radar of his employers, his name became synonymous with a person with a hear t as large as the nameless crowd that he passed every day in the crowded station. The lore of his ‘large-hear tedness’ was exemplified in the fact that when he finished his hard day’s work, he went to the dargah to offer niyaz (sacred food) to the devotees.

Varda used to visit the 260-year-old shrine of Bismillah Shah Baba, which was located just behind the main concourse of the long-distance ter minus at VT.

Starting off with a small amount of food for the poor every day, he began organising food for them at a massive scale as he flourished.

Even as he progressed in his life—from a simple errand boy to a por ter and eventually to a notorious figure in Bombay—the dargah continued to receive food from the Mudaliar household and he continued to rub shoulders with the people with whom he star ted out his life—the por ters. ‘He believed that he owed the dargah his dues. That was the first roof for him in Bombay,’ says his doting daughter Gomathy. Till today, his family has maintained the tradition of giving niyaz

every year in June, where over 10,000 people are fed.

The police circles however refute the good Samaritan history. The policemen only recall incidents that involved words like ‘theft’ and ‘mitigator’ when it came to his generosity. The police had never documented that he was a helpful type; for them Varda was only a crook. The positive aspect of his character was, however, highlighted in two movies, Nayakan¸starring Kamal Hasan, and Dayavan, starring Vinod Khanna.

The innocent boy from Vellore with nothing on his side but sheer drive became a man much before his time in the hard and rough lanes of Bombay. His circle of friends went beyond the por ters that he worked with every day to include local thieves and he was quick to lear n easier means of making money through these friends. The daily toil may have ear ned him only a few annas and lots of abuse from passengers, but this new route also offered him a circle of friends that was bound by solidarity in an otherwise lonely city.

When Morarji Desai imposed the prohibition of liquor and other contraband in the state in 1952, the ban, especially of liquor, only provided licence to a growing illicit liquor trade. This trade required brawn and this proved to be the first turning point in the life of Varadarajan Mudaliar.

His local network brought him closer to goons who were already engaged in this trade. A policeman who had once caught Varda in the thick of the night recalls, ‘He was a glib talker. It is that attribute of his which made him dearer to the liquor mafia. They needed men who could talk and get the work done.

Varda had that in him. He could convince anyone that he was right. Even if he had just killed an ar my, he could legitimise it.’ It took him just a few days to set up base at Antop Hill in central Bombay. It was this area that was going to tur n Varda into Varda Bhai. The little locality witnessed the metamorphosis of the naïve Tamilian boy in his late twenties into the enigmatic outlaw.

The geography of Dharavi, Sion, Koliwada, and Antop Hill was the greatest advantage for the illicit liquor trade with nothing but hutments everywhere. In fact, even the police found it difficult to enter and patrol the area. The poorest people along with illegal migrants had their address in Antop Hill and Dharavi in those days. Like a local policeman narrates, ‘It was a matter of pride to be on a police chargesheet those days for people living in this area. Each boasted of FIRs as one would about awards. Men would be ridiculed if they were caught in silly offences.’ The area was dotted with small huts where local liquor was illicitly one would about awards. Men would be ridiculed if they were caught in silly offences.’ The area was dotted with small huts where local liquor was illicitly produced. With the help of the local network and bribes to the police, the trade made way to bars in Bombay. Varadarajan star ted gaining entry into the trade when it was still in its early days.

The area was mostly occupied by non-Brahmin Tamilians who operated and maintained the bhattis (fur nace) in khaadis (marsh lands). The number of bhattis ran into hundreds, with each one having a capacity of making around 120 litres of concentrated hooch each night.

The police files detailing Varadarajan’s trade said that he was the only one to plough the profits back into the trade as he looked at a much bigger canvas unlike the locals who were complacent with an area under them. He used his ‘south Indian card’ to his advantage and star ted creating pockets of mini Tamil Nadu by recruiting people into the illicit trade. He also identified similar pockets across central Bombay and even moved the production of illicit network to Sion-Koliwada, Dharavi, Chembur, Matunga, and some other areas to create a stronger, tighter network. The word regarding Varadarajan’s tenacity spread and those who came from Tamil Nadu for work invariably ended meeting Varadarajan and settling in this highly lucrative trade.

The logistics of work those days were very nominal. The trade, mostly active after midnight, would consist of a few who knew how to mix liquor, and another set of people who provided the security cover and kept vigil. The next set-up was of foot soldiers who, along with retired cops, worked in the nights round the week to provide liquor to many small shops across the city, especially close to the access points of the city.

The jour nalist Pradeep Shinde who covered the trade very closely, once obser ved, ‘The entire kingdom of Varda Bhai rested on the distribution and collection of illicit hooch.’ ‘The concentrated liquid’, one of his repor ts states, ‘was filled in tubes of truck tyres, which are piled up in the deser ted roads of Dharavi and taken over by the “wheelmen” or distributors. These carriers, ironically are by and large from the ranks of retired or suspended police personnel who have switched sides because of the lure of money. These are transported in gunny-bags, car trunks and other innocuous places.

‘In Bombay, it is easy to identify these carrier vehicles—the rear seats are invariably missing to provide more storage place. In areas which are called “ garam sections” [hot spots], meaning areas that were devoid of friendly police protection and had the risk of meeting a hostile cop par ty, an escor t vehicle was provided.

Its function was to intercept police vehicles which would suddenly be blocked by a car whose ignition had conveniently failed.’ Witnessing this intricate yet simple web of transpor tation, the upper ranks of policemen soon realised that the trade had became a big menace. And slowly but surely, Varda Bhai was transforming from just another illicit liquor producer into a big don.

The dawn of Varda’s power came when his men could get anyone a ration card, illegal electricity, and water supply and make them a Bombay citizen faster than the local administration. People star ted pouring into the city in groups, especially from souther n India—Kar nataka, Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Kerala—

and with each day the slums lined across the central region began to grow. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Varadarajan, in a small way, had much to do in making Dharavi the biggest slum space in Asia. Such was the allure of his might, that people star ted working blindly for him. Press repor ts during the sixties peg his trade of illicit liquor to around 12 crore rupees a year. In those years, that was a huge footprint considering the clandestine nature of the trade.

The aura of his power had engulfed not only his trade but also the psyche of the people around him. An Antop Hill Police Station diary entry records a very sketchy detail about a man from Uttar Pradesh who went missing. He lived with his wife and two children at one of the first floor corridor-houses in Antop Hill.

Every night, when Varadarajan’s men would gather to make liquor, the noise from the vessels would disturb his sleep so much that he complained to the local police, who poignantly chose to turn a deaf ear to it. When news of his complaint reached Varda’s men, it so vexed them that they simply just decided to shut him up ‘forever’ when he came down to yell at them one night. His name is still registered under the missing list at the Antop Hill Police Station records. However, as was widely repor ted in several newspapers at the time, his wife had another story to tell: she was adamant that the police was very handsomely paid to keep mum about the whole incident, she left the city soon after.

Varda, however, knew too well that he needed to be very far-sighted in his approach in handling the network that chose to function under his name. While he handicapped the intelligence network—as bribes ensured that the infor mers in the backstreets were kept satisfied—he also ensured that the other end was well oiled. A news repor t published during the sixties did not shy away from stating on record that ‘constables on the hooch beat made quite a sum. The rate for police protection for the addas [where hooch was sold in public] was Rs 5,000 per adda. Each police station had on an average 75 to 130 addas in its area. For the owners of the addas, the monthly tur nover in just one suburban area with five addas is around Rs 50,000 per month’. The economics worked at 10 rupees per glass for diluted hooch, which means anywhere around 1 crore rupees a month.

He also divided his work area-wise, and let individuals from each local area handle their own business, making the areas more work-efficient while completely eliminating ego hassles. This only fur thered healthy competition in upping retur ns, ensuring no individual or group encroached upon the other’s designated area and distribution network. To maintain the smooth running of his business, he had two trusted lieutenants to look after migrants from Tamil Nadu—Thomas Kurien known as Khaja Bhai and Mohinder Singh Vig known as Bada Soma.

It was not long before Varda slowly edged out rivals in the trade to the point of achieving a complete monopoly. It was also during these early days that he star ted getting cheap migrant labour into the city. Slowly, his men star ted grabbing gover nment land and allocating space to the new entrants for a price and with that, south Indians began to dot the cotton mill-dominated central Bombay of Dadar, Sion Matunga, Dharavi,and Wadala.

Along with the hugely successful hooch trade, there was another trade that Varadarajan’s profits star ted to control—prostitution. Although Varda was never directly involved, he was aware that his men were pouring profits into this very vicious trade. As a for mer assistant commissioner of police obser ves, ‘He never stopped his men from letting the prostitution trade grow. That is where we would like to believe that he was equally involved.’ It was a very unique system, where eunuchs were given the reins of the flesh trade. And with a society that treated them with disdain, the eunuchs felt indebted to Varda Bhai’s system that put them in a position of power.

Innocent girls were brought from pover ty-stricken areas in Kar nataka and Tamil Nadu and were left in the care of eunuchs for a few days. The eunuchs would follow a cer tain initiation system whereby initially they would lure the girls with the money they would ear n by selling themselves. If their sweet talk did not work, force would be applied. Houses in Antop Hill and Dharavi became hotspots for this flesh trade and though Varda Bhai was never seen at the forefront of the business, he certainly was a benefactor of the trade.

Varda’s clout had increased ten-fold, but in the sixties, smuggling was still considered the ‘real innings ’. The big share of the pie was still in gold smuggling with the business tilted to the side of Muslim dons who had the right contacts in Arabia. One of these was Haji Mastan.

5

Tamil Alliance

ver the years, Haji Mastan’s financial state had gone up remarkably. But the bur ning ambition to achieve more still remained. So, once when in the course of Oconversation his collaborator Bakhiya told him that he should first consider becoming Bambai ka Baadshah before venturing towards Gujarat, Mastan was badly stung. To the up and coming smuggler, such a blatant dismissal was a slap in the face. He made up his mind to take over the city but he knew he could not accomplish this alone. He needed the help of powerful musclemen to reach where he wanted to. Varda seemed to be the perfect man for the job. For, while Varda was a don based in central Bombay, he had the clout to get things done all across the city. His men like Nandu Satam could pull things off in the far thest coasts of Versova, Vasai, Virar, and even Palghar.

Mastan was waiting for an oppor tunity to befriend Varda. What followed was a strange twist of fate: it would seem as though destiny had conspired to get these two men together.

Varda was arrested for stealing antennae from the customs dock area. The consignment was meant for a top politician in the Union ministry. Initially, customs officers and the cops remained clueless about the mastermind behind the theft. However, a tip-off led them to pick up Varda from his den in Dharavi.

The captured Varda was told by the police that if he refused to tell them the whereabouts of the consignment they would be forced to unleash the third degree on him, as it was their neck on the line.

According to this possibly apocryphal story, as Varda was mulling over the threat in the night in the loneliness of the Azad Maidan lockup, he saw an affluent looking man, dressed in a white suit approaching him. The man was smoking a 555 cigarette and exuded a cer tain calmness. The man walked up to the iron bars, and not a single one of the cops on duty stopped him. Years of smuggling had made several customs officials Mastan’s friends and put them on his payroll; he had assured them that he would retrieve their consignment tactfully and that Varda must not be tortured.

In the history of the Bombay Mafiosi, Mastan and Varda were the only two Tamilian dons. But ironically, the two were as different as chalk and cheese. While Mastan was known for his suave ways, Varda exuded the aura of a ruthless ruffian. Mastan walked very close to Varda and surprised him by greeting him in Tamil.

‘Vanakkam thalaivar,’ he said.

Varda was taken aback for a moment—both with the greeting in Tamil and the choice of words. ‘Thalaivar’ is a ter m of respect used to refer to the ‘chief’.

No one had even spoken to Varda in a civil manner ever since he had been dumped in jail. So the irony of the greeting appeared starker. Of course it was being used par tly because Mastan was using their common language so the policemen would not understand what they were saying; as he had a business offer for Varda, he could not take the risk of the police smelling an unholy alliance.

After striking up a conversation and developing a rappor t with Varda, Mastan came straight to business, ‘Retur n the antennae to them and I will ensure that you make a lot more money.’ Varda was stunned. He could never imagine Mastan being the spokesperson for the customs and the police. Belligerent at this apparent presumptuousness, he replied brusquely, ‘What if I say I don’t have it and even if I do I don’t want to part with it?’

Mastan remained calm and composed as he spoke, ‘If you presume it will be my loss, then you are mistaken. I deal in gold and silver. I don’t touch such low value stuff that you will have to sell in Chor Bazaar. I am making an offer to you which no wise man can refuse. Return the antennae and be my partner in the gold business.’

Varda was surprised again. Mastan had said so much in such few words. He not only derided Varda and made his suspicions look small, he had also demonstrated his own stature and offered him a par tnership in his business. At this juncture, Haji Mastan was the moneyed guy, the man with the pull, whereas Varda was still to make an indelible mark anywhere. So, when Mastan proposed the alliance, it was an offer Varda could not refuse.

‘What will you benefit from this?’ asked Varda. ‘I want to make friends with you as I want to use your muscle power and clout in the city,’ replied Mastan.

Varda, who had seen enough struggle in his life, must have thought that this was his only chance of walking away from cer tain tor ture and humiliation. He agreed to Mastan’s offer and disclosed where he had hidden his stolen consignment. Policemen in the lock-up still remember that strong handshake of two very different looking men—one in a sophisticated suit and polished boots smoking an expensive cigarette and the other in a white vest, veshti (dhoti), and slippers.

Customs officials got their consignment and saved their jobs, Mastan got his par tner to help him achieve his new-found dreams. Customs officials kept their word with Mastan and released Varda.

As Varda returned to his den, people assumed he would be in a nasty mood and would unleash a bout of terror to show he still ruled the roost. His men thought he would be eager to prove that his detention should not be misconstrued as a sign of his waning power. Instead, Varda retur ned a happier man. He immediately called for a celebration. Even his close aides were a bit baffled at this strange behaviour. What also surprised them was the fact that Varda had actually agreed to retur n the consignment of antennae to the customs officials. It was nothing but a loss of face and revenue. But instead of displaying his foul temper, Varda ordered a public feast for his people.

They did not know that Varda had stooped to conquer. He might have lost the consignment, but he had struck a bigger deal. He had always wanted an alliance with the Muslim mafia, but he had managed to get a partnership on a platter without having to work for it at all.

Earlier, at the jail, Mastan and Varda had struck up the deal, simply by a few well chosen words in Tamil, and mostly through eye contact, the perfect tacit contract. After his release, Varda spent another week or two laying low, assimilating the fact that he, a small time crook, was now muscleman for the powerful, rising Haji Mastan.

Varda knew he could never penetrate into the smuggling trade, as the margins and the territory already came marked. This was closest to the profitable smuggling business. A shrewd Varda saw an oppor tunity in stealing legally impor ted goods and passing them off as smuggled goods. For this he had to tap his operatives at the Bombay Por t Trust Docks. Crime Branch officials who probed the matter during the late sixties realised that the networks were made based on Varda’s contacts during his days as a por ter. It was a very clandestine and calculated scam that took shape. Cheap migrant labour from Thirunelveli found work in the docks and soon many networks were formed and strengthened.

The car tell took roots as a nexus was for med between the labourers, the customs officials, and officers at the Bombay Por t Trust, through Varda’s calculated shrewdness. Over a period of time a patter n emerged: once the goods were unloaded at the docks, in the fifty-three sheds of around 30,000 square feet, cargo would miraculously get transformed into ‘missing cargo’.

The goods would be scattered around the docks by labourers who were recruited by Varda. The goods would then be classified as cases of wrong delivery, missing goods, misplaced goods, shor t landing, and everything else that could go wrong in the transpor ter’s books. The impor ter would file a missing complaint and get insurance for the value lost, and the goods would come under the custody of Varda, who along with the impor ter would share the insurance amount and release the cargo to the impor ter for half the price. Initially, impor ters complained of the crime, but when they realised that they could get the cargo at half the price by giving a share of the insurance to Varda, even they fell in.

The insurance companies, who were the only losers in the game, later realised that the ‘missing’ goods were first spread across the docks. So they became more alert to ensure that such thefts do not occur.

To counter this, Varda came up with a completely new strategy. The ‘missing’ goods, spread across the docks would lie there until the insurance companies would despair, and pay off the impor ters. Meanwhile, the authorities at the por t trust and the customs were paid off handsomely by Varda. They would keep the goods in their places until the insurance companies lost interest, and would then, after a pre-designated period, release them as ‘unclaimed’. Varda would then waltz in, right under everybody’s nose, and make away with the goods.

A policeman from the Crime Branch, said, ‘Even the Muslim dons lacked this kind of shrewdness. The system was very calculated and showed the extent to which Varda could have his way. Even with crores of rupees at stake, there was no bloodshed, nobody lost his head, since Varda was intelligent enough to know how to plug every level right from the steamship agents who got to know if the cargo was wor th stealing to the last leg, where the impor ter was willing to par t with his share.’

Illicit liquor, eunuch-run prostitution, dock theft, and pushing the highly vulnerable south Indian migrant population into criminal activities: all of this was slowly transforming Varda Bhai into somewhat of a philanthropist slumlord. To law enforcers, of course, he remained a merciless mobster surrounded by ‘Madrasi minions’.

Varda had the pulse of the crowd. He was always available at his house, where people crowded around him with their problems. The police at that time said that if anybody ever needed Varda’s protection in the city, the easiest and perhaps the only way to tug at his hear tstrings was a good tragic story of struggle. The swelling crowd and settlers in pockets like Dharavi, Chembur, Matunga, Antop Hill, Koliwada, and far suburbs made for a strong vote bank. This did not go unnoticed at the annual celebration at Matunga’s Ganesh pandal which was organised by Varda. Being a religious man, Varda began spending lavishly on the Ganesh pandals outside Matunga station. With his stature, grew the size and opulence of the pandal. Many celebrities would come to the pandal to pray. It is rumoured that even Jaya Bachchan had prayed here for the life of her superstar husband Amitabh, when he was injured during the filming of the movie Coolie.

Police officials recall how smooth a talker Varda was. They recollect instances when his men, who habitually dodged the police, would come and surrender willingly at his behest. ‘He kept both sides of the rung happy. He would keep a tab on each of his soldiers. The minute he knew that the accused was wanted at the lower rungs, he would negotiate with the police and get the accused in front of them. Once inside, the accused was confident that he would be bailed out. In tur n, once his men were inside the jail, they would star t the second rung of recruitment for Varda,’ says a senior police official adding, ‘there was a designated hotel at Sion Koliwada where so-called surrenders took place.’ ‘The maximum number of arrests has taken place at this hotel over cutting chai and bun maska on the table than out on the field,’ says veteran crime journalist, Pradeep Shinde.

After striking his alliance with Varda and greasing more palms of customs officials, Mastan’s beliefs in the right collaborations and connections grew manifold.

Also, Mastan concluded that as his ill-gotten empire was growing, he had to be wary of cops. He realised that if he wanted to play it safe, he had to befriend some policemen and politicians. Then, Mastan became aware that while foreign gold was popular in Bombay, silver from Bombay was in great demand abroad. He started importing gold from Africa and the Middle East and starting selling silver bricks known as chandi ki eente to countries from where he was importing gold.

As Mastan’s empire was growing tremendously, it became almost impossible for him to super vise each and every operation, so he enlisted the help of a man called Yusuf Patel. Yusuf Patel was Mastan’s acolyte and considered Mastan his mentor. While lear ning the tricks of the trade from Mastan, his for tunes grew.

Yusuf knew that the silver bricks that Mastan sent abroad were considered of the purest quality and even had a ‘brand’ name: ‘Mastan ki Chaandi’. His honesty in the business had earned him his credibility.

Mastan, who had dreams of owning a bungalow and a fleet of foreign cars, now finally saw them take shape. He had a palatial house in Malabar Hill and several cars at his disposal. After marrying Sabiha Bi from Madras, Mastan had three daughters, Kamarunissa, Mehrunissa, and Shamshad.

On the business front, Mastan was now known to be the most affluent don in the city, and was growing from strength to strength. He began to use other por ts like Chembur, Versova, and the Thane creek. And by the early seventies, Varda in central Bombay, Haji Mastan in the south and west, and the final member of their triumvirate, a Pathan called Karim Lala who provided the muscle, for med the most for midable alliance of smugglers and dons in Bombay. When they were mentioned together, they inspired awe in the youth and other small or aspiring dons.

6

Pathan Power

o one, not even his family, knew exactly when Karim Lala arrived in Bombay. What is known is that it was approximately in the thir ties. Mumbai was known Neven then for its cosmopolitan identity and inclusive character. Nepalese, Burmese, Ceylonese, and Kabuliwallahs (Pathans) visited the city and made it their home because they saw more oppor tunities for business and personal advancement in Bombay than they ever saw in cities like Kabul, Kathmandu, or Colombo.

Abdul Karim Khan alias Karim Lala, a towering Pathan—almost 7 feet tall— came to Bombay from Peshawar with dreams in his eyes. Unlike his mentor Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan, whom he followed into the country, he was not drawn to India’s freedom struggle. Despite being a bonafide member of the Pakhtoon Jirga-e Hind, he did not par ticipate in the movement. Instead, he was drawn to the city of Bombay—a city of myriad hues, which was very different from his motherland, with its mountains and wilderness. He fell in love with the city and decided to call it his own.

Karim Khan, like several others, had come to Bombay in search of for tune. He wanted to achieve here what he could not achieve in Peshawar. He rented a place in south Bombay, in Baida Gully near Grant Road station. Uneducated and unskilled, Karim Khan decided to be self-employed, as he could not think of any other way to earn a decent living.

He star ted off by establishing a gambling den — euphemistically known as a ‘social club’—on the street he lived in. The club was frequented by all kinds of people—paupers and those with deep pockets; those who could afford to lose money and those who struggled to sur vive; daily wage labourers and middle-class men. Heavy losers borrowed money from Khan or his men to buy groceries or other necessities. When Khan noticed that this was becoming a trend, he decided to put an end to it by asking the borrowers to pay him interest on the 10 th of every month for the borrowed sum. This discouraged some but others remained undaunted. Khan noticed that his cash box swelled on the tenth of every month, despite the interest, and encouraged by this, he decided to become a moneylender or lala. Thus, Karim Khan came to be known as Karim ‘Lala’.

Karim Lala was not the only Pathan who lent money and lived off the interest. His brother, Abdul Rahim Khan alias Rahim Lala, also ran a social club near Jail Road in Dongri. There were other Pathans who did not own gambling dens but were affluent enough to lend money. Life star ted looking up for the sizeable Pathan community in the city.

Over a period of time, Karim Lala’s gambling den became a hotspot for crime. Violence, brawls, and mugging became routine. This brought him into contact with the local police and subsequently with Crime Branch officials. But Karim Lala managed to bribe his way out of legal entanglements. Slowly and gradually he began to grow in stature and clout. Some began to refer to him in grander ter ms as Karim Dada. Following their tribal tradition the Pathans, who had begun to crowd around Karim Lala, looked up to him as their leader. In retur n, he would bail them out of tricky situations, from time to time involving himself in their concerns.

Soon Karim Lala became a household name in south Bombay and unwittingly became par t of what is referred to as matter patana or kholi khali karana. Matter patana meant resolving an ongoing dispute by becoming an arbitrator between the two par ties, while kholi khali karana meant evicting the occupant of a house by force. This infor mall arbitration, truth be told, was much smoother than the cour t cases and resultant verdicts were treated with more respect than those that had the seal of the court.

Karim Lala developed a for midable reputation for himself as a mediator. It star ted off with his getting involved in the concer ns of friends and their own friends, but gradually the Pathan became the choicest arbiter in any kind of dispute in south Bombay. Soon, he realised he was raking in good money because of this weekly arbitration, which took place on the terrace of his building on Sundays.

At this point, his cronies like Murad Khan and Yaqub Khan decided to diversify into eviction. South Bombay had the maximum number of houses on the pagdi system, in those days. Pagdi technically means turban, but in this context it means that the tenant has placed his pagdi or honour in the hands of the owner, and which he will get back once he vacates the house. In the business, this pagdi system meant that once an individual gave the money to the owner, he or she would have complete right over the proper ty. In the sixties and seventies, even 500 sq feet tenements were given out for a nominal amount of 5,000 to 10,000 rupees.

At times, the rooms were given out for 9 to 99 years in a lease as low as 20,000 rupees. So when after a couple of years, the seller regretted giving out the room for such a meagre amount, he expected more money, which the occupant might not agree to pay, later in the day. There were also several instances when the lease period was completed, but the occupant was not budging or shelling out more money. In cases like these, the landlord or the tenant made use of the ser vices of Karim Lala and his minions.

Karim Lala realised that he could make more money out of this than through lending money, waiting for the 10th of every month. As this new business thrived, he took on such a fearsome aura that several proper ties were evicted just by mention of his name. No sooner did the landlord say, ‘Ab toh Lala ko bulana padega

[now Lala needs to be called]’ , the occupant, whether in the right or wrong, would vacate the house.

It was now several years after Indian Independence and the Pathans had now settled in comfor tably. Khan had become the uncrowned leader of the Pathans in the city. His exact age was not known, but in the early fifties, the Pathans threw a huge party for his fiftieth birthday.

Karim Lala had now graduated from starched Pathani suits to white safari suits. He had a flamboyant lifestyle. He spor ted dark glasses and was almost always seen smoking expensive cigars and pipes. On his 50th bir thday, one of his sycophants gifted him an expensive walking stick. Initially, Karim Lala had frowned at the gift saying he was still strong and fit enough to walk around without the help of a stick. But when several of his aides suggested this would only add to the strength of his personality, Karim Lala readily agreed. After this, he could be seen walking with his fancy new present at all major gatherings.

The stick began to accompany the man everywhere. If he went to the mosque and got up for ablutions, leaving the stick behind, even if the mosque got crammed and crowded, no one would dare to move the stick aside or occupy Karim Lala’s prayer spot. Likewise, in any social gathering, if he made a trip to the washroom and left his stick behind, resting on a sofa, no one would dare to come and sit on the sofa. There was much talk of the stick and the awe it commanded amongst ordinary mortals. Remarkably, Karim Lala enjoyed this new height of power without having entailed bloodshed or effort.

Landlords like Chaman Singh Mewawala and Abdul Qureishi who had become regulars in Lala’s baithaks (gatherings) realised that every time they contracted Lala for an eviction, they had to dole out a sizeable amount to him and his goons. So, in order to cut down on expenses, they sought to use solely the symbol of his power and pay a fraction of what they had to otherwise pay him.

Between the two of them they devised a plan to obtain his consent so that he would not know the actual reason behind the proposal. Catching him when he was in a good mood one morning, they began. As Lala had been running into rough weather with the cops and CID and they were making a file on him, they suggested he should abstain from physically leading eviction assaults and even avoid sending his Man Fridays.

‘Phir kholi kaisa khali karega [then how will the eviction happen]?’Lala asked with sincere concern. ‘Hamari khopdi mein ek kamaal ka idea hain, jisse saanp bhi mar jayega aur lathi bhi nahin tootega [we have the perfect strategy in place, which will ensure that the snake will be killed and the rod will not be broken],’ the landlords replied. Lala looked at them incredulously.

Whenever they wanted to evict a house, Lala’s men now left only his stick at the desired site, as an ominous symbol. It always seemed to work, they found.

Many tenants would almost immediately evict the house and leave the fear-inspiring stick behind.

Nobody before this had commanded such clout. This not only added to Lala’s fearsome reputation but also caught the attention of Haji Mastan. Mastan had always wanted a man who could pull off tricky things for him without violence. He sent a message to Karim Lala for a meeting. Karim Lala had heard a lot about Mastan but had never met him earlier.

They both met during Friday prayers at Grant Road mosque and proceeded to Taher Manzil, Karim Lala’s Baida Gully residence for lunch. For religious Muslims, lunch after Friday prayers should be sumptuous and rich. Karim Lala had laid down a scrumptious feast for Mastan. Both of them immediately struck a rapport over the meal, laughing and talking like old friends. After the meal, it was time to move to weightier issues.

‘Khan, saab,’ Mastan said, addressing Karim Lala, ‘it has been great talking to you like friends, but now, I have a business proposition for you.’ Karim Lala had been waiting for just such an opening, and he leaned forward, interested. ‘Of course, Mastan bhai, tell me. What do you have in mind?’ he asked.

Mastan slowly sipped some water before he star ted to talk, ‘As you know, I have quite a lucrative business going at the docks. But I am in need of some manpower, people who know what they are doing. I was wondering if you would be interested in providing me with men.’ Karim Lala’s eyes gleamed. ‘You intrigue me, Mastan bhai. But tell me, what would my men have to do?’ he enquired.

Mastan replied, ‘Nothing too dangerous. I have a lot of goods coming in at the docks at Bombay Por t Trust. They need to be unloaded quickly and efficiently, taken and stored in a warehouse, and then, transpor ted out. Your men will have to give their protection to me and my men, for the goods at the docks and the warehouses, until they are sold off. That’s all.’ Mastan knew that if he pitched it like this, the up and coming Karim Lala would be assured that there would not be much danger involved.

Karim Lala sat back and folded his ar ms across his chest, brow furrowed as he thought about Mastan’s proposition. After a minute, he asked, ‘I see. Will there be any violence involved?’

Mastan smiled. He knew he had Karim Lala hooked. ‘Khan saab, if your men are around, there isn’t a soul who will dare intrude or interrupt us. So there won’t really be much violence involved.’

‘Well then, it sounds pretty doable. But what do I get out of this, Mastan bhai?’

‘Well, Khan saab, I can’t promise you a fixed cut, but our shares will depend upon the value of the goods that we unload. So, how about we decide on our shares on a consignment basis?’

Mastan knew this was the tricky part, but he knew, almost as a certainty, that in the end Karim would not be able to resist.

A short silence prevailed, in which Mastan watched the man sitting across him think furiously. Finally, Karim Lala released a deep breath, looked up, and, with a smile, offered his hand. Mastan took it, and shook hands. This sealed one of the deadliest deals of the time in the Bombay underworld, Mastan would be the brains, and Karim Lala would provide the brawns. Finally, Karim Lala had skyrocketed into the big league.

This newfound alliance presented a headache for the cops. Mastan was a well-connected smuggler and Karim Lala, a ruthless muscleman: a most unholy alliance. As Mastan’s political connections were well oiled, they knew they could not touch him; they decided to try to clip Lala’s wings.

In a very concer ted attempt, cops unleashed a crackdown on Karim Lala and his brother Rahim’s gambling dens. At times their hotel managers were picked up, detained and subjected to relentless questioning. Baida Gully began to see frequent visits from the police. Strangely, these police officers came bragging about what they could do to Karim Lala because of his involvement in mediation and eviction deals. But after all their histrionics and hard talk, they left tamely, pockets full of bakshish (bribe). Once in a while Karim Lala was also summoned to the CID office. Threats were issued that he would be produced in front of the then Deputy Commissioner of Police Huzur Ahmed Khan, but the moment he put his hands in his pocket and brought out wads of notes, they became as docile as donation seekers from charity organisations.

The only policeman the Karim Lala respected was Head Constable, Havaldar Ibrahim Kaskar. Ibrahim had never ever asked him for money and never displayed any sor t of deference towards him. In fact, despite his being a constable, Ibrahim chose to admonish him in the strongest ter ms. They had known each other for several years and Ibrahim exhor ted him to close down his gambling dens and his business of lending money on interest, as both businesses were considered haram in Islam and thus the money earned qualified as unlawful and ill-gotten.

Karim Lala was astonished at Ibrahim’s devoutness and bluntness in the face of a notorious don. Ibrahim was a pauper and was struggling to make both ends meet, yet he did not want to accept money from him and preferred to sur vive on a meagre salary of 75 rupees a month. Karim Lala had never felt such a sense of meet, yet he did not want to accept money from him and preferred to sur vive on a meagre salary of 75 rupees a month. Karim Lala had never felt such a sense of respect for anyone else in his life—he almost venerated Ibrahim. Despite the head constable being younger to him by a decade or more, Lala began to call him Ibrahim Bhai.

7

The Original Don: Baashu

he three men lurking near the state-run JJ Hospital in Teli Mohalla looked so menacing that passers-by instinctively crossed the road to avoid them. Khalid TPehelwan, Raheem Pehelwan, and Lall Khan were massively built by Indian standards. They had earned the title ‘ Pehelwan’, or wrestler, by toiling at their boss’ gym. Their effort showed in the biceps that bulged under their taut skin.

While the trio flexed their muscles and others scurried past, a gleaming black Mercedes Benz glided into view; the kind that was later popularised as the customary ride of innumerable reel dons. The gritty neighbourhood of Teli Mohalla seemed transfor med by the moment. In the early seventies, people saw few Mercs cruise the streets of Bombay. They were beyond the means of all but a handful of people, and Ahmed Khan alias Don or Baashu Dada belonged to that exclusive club. He was the vain owner of not one, but two of these expensive status symbols.

When the car pulled in close to his office, Baashu Dada’s minions stood to attention. According to his closest aides, Baashu Dada was unlettered and incapable of even signing his own name. Despite this, he wielded absolute power over his fiefdom of Dongri in the seventies.

The don stepped out, clad in a pair of jeans and a T-shir t, his well-built frame matching those of his acolytes. Baashu Dada never wore full-sleeved shir ts. He liked to show off his body builder’s biceps and sinewy forearms. He wanted to show that he was as strong as he was shrewd.

Today, as Baashu Dada walked up to his henchmen, he threw down the gauntlet at once. ‘What kind of fucking pehelwans are you?’ he thundered. ‘Can you do a hundred push-ups without a break?’

Khalid and Raheem’s ability had never been questioned with such contempt and that too by Baashu Dada. They had little choice but to prove themselves.

‘Of course, I can do a 100 dips,’ Rahim replied, trying to salvage his wounded pride.

‘Go on, do it!’ Baashu egged him on, ‘Khalid, you join him too!’

Teli Mohalla was abuzz. A small crowd gathered to watch the two wrestlers in their exer tions. Both took up their positions, palms outstretched, hips raised, and legs extended, only their toes touching the ground.

The countdown began: one… two… three… four… five… .

Baashu Dada joined the battle of the biceps, slipping into position easily. The crowd’s excitement went up a notch.

By the twentieth push-up, Khalid and Raheem were panting. But Baashu Dada, who had been quietly keeping pace, showed no signs of flagging. When they crossed seventy, the going got even tougher. With each passing number, Rahim found it more and more difficult to rise. When he hit eighty-seven, he could not do it anymore. He flopped to the ground, his face kissing the dirt.

Khalid managed three more dips. He was deter mined not to collapse in a heap like Rahim. He also did not want to lose when he was so close. Unable to rise and too spent to dip again, he suddenly froze, mid-position, sweat pouring from his creased forehead. His heavyset body trembled with the effort.

By now, Baashu Dada had become the centre of attention. He had cruised past ninety and was well on his way to a century. But instead of stopping at 100, he continued with astonishing speed. His breathing got heavy when he crossed 110, but he never once slowed down. When he finally stopped at 120, his T-shir t was drenched with sweat, but he rose to his feet and gave both his bodyguards a big smile. He had proven his point. He did not exchange any words, but ordered three glasses of badam sherbet.

Badam sherbet (a sweet, refreshing concoction made of milk and almonds) was the favourite drink of Muslim bodybuilders of yesteryears. For men like Khalid and Raheem, it symbolised a reward for their hard labour.

The two men from Uttar Pradesh worked out at Baashu Dada’s Teli Mohalla headquar ters, which doubled up as a gym. Huge mirrors lined the walls of this room, while an assortment of pulleys, dumbbells, and barbells were strewn on the floor.

It was from this den that Baashu Dada sur veyed his smuggling universe and lorded over Dongri, the toughest territory in the city. One of the top smugglers of his time, Baashu dealt in gold and silver.

The police steered clear of Baashu Dada, as he was the most powerful don in the area. In fact, the local policemen regularly sought his help in solving cases.

Baashu’s contacts in the city helped them nab pickpockets, bicycle thieves, violent criminals, and underground casino operators.

Baashu Dada’s helpful gestures did not go unrewarded. When the customs depar tment or the Directorate of Revenue Intelligence implicated him in a smuggling case, policemen from the Dongri Police Station or the Yellow Gate Police Station found themselves in a tricky situation.

To save face, they would ostensibly mount raids on Baashu Dada’s premises. The police jeep would park at the cor ner of the NU Kitab Ghar at the JJ Junction.

An officer, accompanied by a lone constable, would get out of the jeep, take off his cap and walk towards Baashu’s evening baithak. The don would not budge an inch from his seat, barely acknowledging the policeman’s presence. And the officer would greet him humbly and sit on a chair, if he was offered one.

inch from his seat, barely acknowledging the policeman’s presence. And the officer would greet him humbly and sit on a chair, if he was offered one.

Sometimes, the don would treat these men in unifor m to badam sherbet. At other times, he would ask them to leave, no questions asked. Even the policemen of Bombay, who had the reputation of being India’s toughest, were forced to comply—if not grovel—in front of Baashu. Once a star ving slum dweller, Baashu Dada had scaled dizzying heights.

Baashu landed in Bombay in the post-Independence years of pover ty and despair. A young boy barely in his teens, he spent days searching for food in the south Bombay areas of Null Bazaar, Khetwadi, and Grant Road. Although he made some money as a cycle mechanic and errand boy at a scrap shop, he went hungry more often than not. One day, in a desperate bid for sur vival, Baashu snatched a leather bag from a Marwari businessman outside Shalimar Talkies and ran for his life. When the businessman raised an alar m, a mob star ted chasing him. At the Null Bazaar junction, a police constable nabbed him and confiscated the bag, which was stuffed with wads of currency.

As punishment, Baashu was sent to the Dongri Remand Home, the city’s biggest penitentiary for juvenile offenders. At the age of 15, he had to work like a hardened convict, lifting heavy barrels of water and gunny bags. It was in the throes of such strenuous work that Baashu began to pay attention to the interesting ways his body was changing, his friend Shaikh Abdul Rahim alias Rahim Chacha recalls. The initial fancy he took to bodybuilding tur ned into an obsession. With his expanding pectorals and bulging biceps, he became a force to reckon with inside the remand home; the inmates and even the wardens became wary of his volatile temper and physical prowess.

Legend has it that Baashu once slapped a cook for ser ving him less food. The enraged cook retaliated by hitting him with an iron rod, which Baashu twisted out of shape with ease. The astonished eyewitnesses, who had never seen such a display of brute strength, grew increasingly deferential to Baashu.

The administration, which had initially sought to punish him for this act of intimidation, let it pass as the lad was only few months shor t of 18, the age of release from the remand home.

Once released, Baashu joined the ranks of unemployed youth in the city. But not for long. Before his release, he had chalked out a plan of action. For, inside the remand home he had met a couple of teenage criminals who showed him how to make a quick buck.

Swiftly, he assembled a band of equally daring boys who were itching to make some money. The newly founded gang waited outside the Bombay dock at Masjid Bunder and clambered atop trucks carrying impor ted fabrics and electronic items. By the time the truck reached the city, Baashu and his gang managed to steal enough goods to ear n themselves several thousand rupees at Mohatta Market. These exploits ear ned the intrepid Baashu an early nickname: godi ka chuha (dock rat).

The profits he made off this scam were sufficient to afford Baashu a luxurious lifestyle. But soon enough, he got bored of this risky small- time business. He tur ned his eye to direct smuggling. In the very first consignment of Rolex and Rado watches he smuggled in, he managed a windfall profit. Within months, the young man made it to the top league, joining Haji Mastan and his fellow don Bakhiya. He began driving fancy cars and bought flats in plush Malabar Hill, in addition to several other proper ties in Bombay and a few in Hyderabad. Secretly, though, Baashu was quite disdainful of Mastan and Bakhiya. He was a self-made man, who saw to all the nitty-gritty himself, and consequently, never thought highly of anyone who would make others do all the dirty work for them.

One quality remained unchanged despite his meteoric rise: his obsession with bodybuilding. This extended to his collective use of force; unlike other smugglers like Haji Mastan, who had to hire muscle from Karim Lala or Varda, Baashu always used his own muscle and men to conduct his business.

Baashu, like most dons, hated the system and treated the police machinery with disdain—something no other don before or after him managed so effor tlessly, perhaps. Among the members of his coterie, however, was the retired head constable, Ibrahim Kaskar, so revered by Karim Lala. Baashu was a master puppeteer who manipulated and used several retired and ser ving cops. Ibrahim was one of these, a for mer head constable. Under the guise of friendship, Baashu would often make use of Ibrahim and his knowledge of the system to get his smuggled goods cleared by customs. But despite all the contempt he displayed when it came to the police force, he showed deference towards Ibrahim bhai. Baashu genuinely liked the man for his honesty and integrity. He often told Ibrahim bhai, ‘ Agar aap police mein na hote toh aap mere saath hote [if you weren’t with the police, you would work for me] .’ And known for his bluntness, Ibrahim Bhai would retor t,

‘God forbid, I’d never have to see a day like that’.

An offended Baashu decided he needed to crush Ibrahim Bhai’s pride. Nobody had the guts to snub him the way Ibrahim Bhai did.

Baashu found out that Ibrahim Bhai, for all his popularity and the respect accorded him by society, was close only to a handful of people. One of these friends was a small-time racketeer called Abdul Rahim, with whom Ibrahim had grown up. A shor t puny man, Rahim was used to selling off smuggled goods from Mastan or Baashu to big markets and in sales hubs like Mohatta Market and Manish Market, earning a commission on the sales.

Rahim was well-known in smuggling circles and Ibrahim Bhai often got him out of tricky situations. Rahim and Ibrahim Bhai were childhood friends and were known for being thicker than blood brothers. Bashu lear nt that Rahim did not have a steady income. Rahim was the type who was flush if he had just handled a smuggling consignment and then went through a lean patch subsequently, once a lull hit.

Baashu summoned him and asked him to work for a fixed salary of 500 rupees as his manager. For Rahim, it was a princely sum and he lost no time in accepting the offer. But there was a rider—‘Baashu bhai, dost bana kar rakhenge to dosti mein jaan de sakta hoon, lekin ghulami nahin karoonga [Baashu bhai, treat me like a friend and I’ll give up my life for you, but I won’t be your slave],’ Rahim told him.

Something about Rahim immediately endeared him to Baashu and they both began working together. Although Baashu had hired Rahim to get Ibrahim bhai on his payroll, he soon realised that Rahim himself was a versatile man. Rahim increased his profits manifold with his sharp business acumen. Soon Rahim became indispensable to Baashu and an integral part of his think-tank.

With changing circumstances, almost everyone forgot that Baashu wanted Ibrahim to pay obeisance to him. But destiny has an indelible memory.

8

The Star Called David

brahim Kaskar’s family was originally from the village of Mumka in Ratnagiri district in Maharashtra. Ibrahim’s father Hasan Kaskar owned a small hair cutting Isalon called the Naaz Hair Cutting Saloon at Char Null in Dongri. Ibrahim had three brothers, Ahmed, Mehmood, and Ismail. All of them were based in Khed village near Ratnagiri. Ibrahim alone had made his home in Bombay and a name for himself though the Kaskars were poor, the constable was well-known in the Dongri area. There were few head constables from the Muslim community, and in those times, head constables were considered more powerful than even the Deputy Commissioner of Police (DCP).

By then, Haji Mastan and Karim Lala were established and ruling the roost. However, one man who could always enter their darbar was Ibrahim Kaskar. This speaks volumes about his clout and the respect that he commanded in those circles. Even though he used to work for Mastan and ear ned remuneration for his services, they still looked upon him as their friend.

After Karim Lala’s example, everyone had begun to address the man fondly as Ibrahim Bhai. Whenever there was a social or family dispute in the area, whether between brothers regarding proper ty or between couples or between two businessmen, Ibrahim bBhai was always summoned to play the role of mediator. Inevitably, these issues were resolved after his inter vention. And aside from settling local disputes, the man was also ever-willing to help the poor. He was known to offer food, shelter, clothes, and even money to those who needed them, from orphans to destitutes to the unlucky. He would even borrow money from the dons to help out someone when he himself did not have the resources.

But the same Ibrahim Bhai who yielded such clout and exuded such authority in the area would rise to his feet with genuine reverence each time he saw anyone who claimed to be a Sayyed Muslim. Although there is no caste hierarchy in Islam, Sayyed Muslims are considered superior by pedigree as they are said to have descended from Prophet Mohammad. It was this deep reverence towards Sayyeds that presented oppor tunity to many unscrupulous people who wanted to take advantage of Ibrahim bhai’s religiosity.

Regarded as a resourceful cop in CID, Kaskar had, in a career spanning over two decades, built up a for midable reputation in the police. In the early sixties, Yusuf havildar, Adam havildar , and Ibrahim Kaskar for med a powerful group of constables in Dongri and used to make criminals quiver. Their methods of interrogation, using both psychological and physical torture, were so effective that the thugs used to say, ‘Yahan deewaren bhi bolti hai [even the walls will confess their crimes].’

Kaskar was a constable at several different police stations like Colaba, Mahim, Malabar Hill, as well as the traffic police HQ and retired around 1967 with his final posting at the Crime Branch. At the time, there was only one Crime Branch stationed in the commissioner’s headquar ters: an elite squad made up of competent people. How ironic that the same room Ibrahim bhai was once saluted in later became the backdrop for discussions around the rise of the most dreaded gangster of the era — his very own son.

Kaskar lived with his wife Amina and a two-year-old son, Sabir in a small, nondescript 10 x 10 square feet house in Temkar Mohalla, a far- flung cor ner of south Bombay. It was here that his infamous second son was born on 26 December 1955.

Despite his already having been a father, the news of the bir th of second son made Ibrahim ecstatic. Posted with the Malabar Hill traffic police at the time, he was manning the roads when he was given the good news: his wife Amina bi had delivered. He immediately sought leave from his superiors and rushed to his wife’s side. As he looked at the infant, he recollected that only a couple of months ago, Nirale Shah Baba, a seer whom they all revered deeply, had predicted that he would have six sons, and that his second born would be powerful, famous, and wealthy.

Ibrahim Kaskar was a very religious, pious man. When he looked at his son and thought of the power and wealth the seer had predicted, he could not conceive of any other name but Dawood. And thus Constable Ibrahim Kaskar’s second son came to be christened Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar.

The Holy Quran and the Old Testament of the Bible both hold references to Dawood (or David), as a highly venerable and powerful prophet of God. Dawood was also a king who ruled all the creations of God including animals and birds. According to Muslim folklore, Dawood was strong enough to bend an iron rod by a mere touch of his hand. The biblical Dawood also had a sweet voice—such that when he sang the Psalms, even birds would stop to listen to him, mesmerised by the sonorous voice.

When he named his son Dawood, Ibrahim hoped his son would reach the heights of glory, fame, and wealth predicted for him, and that the magical effect of this most apt of names would rub off on the boy.

Karim Lala, Pathan of Peshawar, was the first to receive news of Dawood’s bir th outside the Kaskar clan. In fact, it is said that as Kaskar could not afford a walima (a feast organised on the birth of a son), Karim Lala hosted a lavish feast on behalf of his dear friend, Ibrahim Bhai.

For tunately, no clair voyant attended the feast, or else they might have war ned Karim Lala that instead of celebrating the bir th of his friend’s son so generously, he might do well to mourn the birth of his future nemesis.

9

The Baap of Dons

brahim believed in the old world ideology wherefore children are regarded as the bounty of Allah. Thus Ibrahim’s family kept growing at a steady pace. After IDawood, Amina gave birth to five more sons: Anees, Noora, Iqbal, Mustaqeem, and Humayun. They also had four daughters Zaitun, Haseena, Farhana, and Mumtaz. Her eldest were Saeeda. It was quite a struggle to sur vive, trying to subsist and raise twelve children with a meagre salary. Stories from that time tell of how the Kaskar children star ved most of the time. After they had their mor ning meal, which comprised tea and a piece of bread (known as brun pav), the next meal was dinner late at night.

Most of the time, the family did not have anything to eat through the day. But in spite of the abject conditions they lived in, Ibrahim wanted his children to have a good education. He got Dawood enrolled in Ahmed Sailor High School, a prominent English-medium school at Nagpada, while his brothers were sent to municipality schools and sisters to Urdu-medium schools. Dawood’s father also ensured that his second son, intended for great things, was involved in extracurricular activities. He enrolled him in the RSP (Road Safety Patrol) team where he was given traffic training. Until the sixth grade, things went smoothly and Dawood did not play hooky.

But one day, Ibrahim and a few of his colleagues lost their jobs. It was never clear as to what exactly precipitated the crisis, but it was widely suspected the blow had been dealt because the policemen had not cracked a par ticularly high-profile murder case in 1966. Subsequently placed under suspension with his colleagues, Ibrahim could not believe his fate. The family was virtually on the brink of starvation.

Education now seemed a distant dream. Perhaps life would have taken a different tur n for Dawood if he could have continued his education. But the family’s deteriorating financial circumstances forced him to drop out. Dawood was thus 10 years old when he bid farewell to formal education.

One man who was deeply disturbed by this development was Ibrahim Kaskar’s senior, ACP Dastagir Burhan Malgi. He insisted Dawood should continue his education at any cost, but Ibrahim Kaskar had no choice. From the summer of 1966, Dawood was one happy boy. He did not have to go to school, study, or complete his homework. He did not have to undergo the RSP training his father had put him through. And most impor tantly, he had all the free time in the world to do what he wanted—hang out in the area with other boys his age.

The boy star ted spending time with the street urchins in the Dongri and JJ area, much to the chagrin of his parents. At other times, he was found in the huge sprawling precincts of the JJ Hospital where he played cricket. He loved the game, patronising it even when he was on the run from the law, much later.

Another favourite hangout was the JJ Square, where he played with other Muslim boys.

In the meanwhile, Ibrahim was busy with a new kind of work; he had begun doing various odd jobs to feed his family. He was forced to run cer tain errands for Baashu Dada, even—petty jobs like running around with files to the clerks of the customs depar tment and Bombay Por t Trust officials. But he remained honest and despite temptations and enticement from friends like Rahim, he did not succumb to the temptations of a life of crime. He could not, however, keep a check on his sons, especially Sabir and Dawood.

Soon, Dawood’s family had to give up their house in Temkar Mohalla and shift to Musafirkhana, Pakhmodia Street, a stone’s throw away (at the time, called Bohri Mohalla). The Kaskars had barely shifted when Dawood made his presence felt in the area as the local goon. The Bohra community bore the brunt of the activities of the budding gang of thugs. Musafirkhana became the unofficial headquarters for the budding Dawood gang.

Despite all the religious teachings and education impar ted by his parents, Dawood was drawn to crime and power and he was hungry to ear n lots of money.

Even before his teens, he had begun to indulge in street crime like petty theft, chain snatching, beating up people, pickpocketing, and extor ting money from shopkeepers.

Dawood was just 14 years old when he committed his first crime. He snatched money from a man who was counting cash on the road and ran away with it.

The victim managed to trace Ibrahim and complained to him. A furious Ibrahim got hold of his son and gave him a proper thrashing. This kept Dawood and his minions under check for a few days, but not for long. The boy soon returned to his wayward behaviour.

Dawood’s menace, clout, and propensity to cause mischief were soon common knowledge in the area. Whenever his father heard of his crimes, he was doubly embarrassed and enraged; both as a cop and as a father. However Ibrahim, who was transferred to the Crime Branch, was swar med with work in his new posting and did not have the time to constantly discipline and watch over his troublemaker son. When he was not working, he was caught up in endless rounds of community work. But he never failed to haul up Dawood when he heard of his misdeeds, losing count of the number of times he had beaten the boy black and blue.

Dawood was very much in awe of his father, and yet he listened to no one other than his mother. There would be long spells when father and son would not be on talking ter ms: Ibrahim because he thought Dawood was a stigma to his name, and Dawood, sulking for having been pulled up. However, during these spells, his mother would never haul him up as his father did, but instead would remain a friend to him. So, the two would never not communicate. When it came to hooliganism, though, he would not listen even to his mother. ‘Beta , this is not right for you. Look, your dad is a policeman and your activities will ruin his reputation’, she would gently reprimand him. And each time, a noncommittal ‘dekhoonga maa’, was the budding don’s refrain.

Dawood could not resist being what he was. He loved the power that came by means of terrorising people and he wanted to ear n pots of money by any means.

Although poor and lacking the monetary resources, he longed to see his brothers in fine clothing and sisters and mother laden with jewellery. It was Dawood who called the shots and took major decisions regarding household expenses whenever these were needed. Amina always reser ved her remonstrations for Dawood, directing her words to him because she knew that the others simply followed suit. Even Sabir, older to Dawood, was content playing second fiddle to him. The directing her words to him because she knew that the others simply followed suit. Even Sabir, older to Dawood, was content playing second fiddle to him. The boy who would one day be the uncrowned king of the underworld lived a pauper’s childhood; therein, perhaps, lies the key to his greed and ruthlessness.

As was bound to happen with so much spare time on his hands, Dawood had crossed paths with ubiquitous local goons, by this time. He had heard about the power of the Allahabadi and the Kashmiri gangs, but the gang that Dawood really admired and wanted to be a part of was the Pathan gang.

In the meanwhile, a huge influx of Muslim youths from Ratnagiri to Mumbai had come about, par ticularly from Dawood’s village Mumka. They all invariably converged around Dongri. Ibrahim had become the pivot for most of the milling Konkani Muslims who landed in the city in the late sixties and early seventies. A small cluster of Konkani boys fell in with Sabir, Dawood, and his brothers. Ali Abdulla Antulay, later called Ali bhai, was one of these many boys new to the city.

By the early seventies, the teenaged Dawood had become a ringleader of a small gang of boys, consisting of his brothers Sabir and Anees, his cousin, Ali, and others like Ayyub and Rashid.

The Bohras were a well-to-do community with established businesses that stretched right from the Khada Parsi junction to Claire Road in Nagpada, par ts of Agripada, and Musafirkhana. They owned glass houses, eateries, and travel and tourism operations and were relatively the most prosperous of the lot in the area.

Being peaceloving people, they shied away from confrontation and open fighting. When Dawood or his boys tried to extor t money from them, they preferred giving away the money to creating a scene or worse, risking bodily har m. In this way, Dawood’s imper tinence grew unchecked. After a while, he did not have to personally go to extor t money—the gang members did the job for him, providing the muscle for his operations. All the boys, sometimes a motley crew of three or four, and at others, a gang of over ten, looked up to him as their leader, and with the title came perks such as a crew of willing boys working under him and reporting to him directly. In this manner, until 1972-73, Dawood was involved in extortion.

Dawood always wanted to get to the next level and he was no different as a young lad. Gradually the gang graduated to conning people. They set up a shop in Mohatta Market selling impor ted watches. One or two boys would walk the streets outside the shop and look for prospective targets. Finally, when they saw a potential victim approaching, they slid up to him quietly and showed him a watch in a case—‘Rado ghadi—5,000 ka maal 2,000 mein. Andar aa jao, baat karenge

[A 5,000 rupees-wor th Rado watch, only for 2,000 rupees. Come in, we can negotiate.]’. Saying this, they would lure the catch inside the shop. Once inside they would allow the man to bargain and finally close the deal at about 1,200-1,500 rupees. They would then take the watch in to be wrapped and packed, and replace the watch with a stone. They called this act ‘ palti maarna’. Emerging, they would tell the man, ‘Yeh leke jaao. Idhar mat kholna. Koi dekhega toh problem ho jaayegi [take this with you, but do not open it here because if someone sees it there might be a problem].’ The man would unwittingly take it and walk away.

Once a little away from the shop, he would open the box and discover the con. If he retur ned to the shop, the boys would deny everything with impunity. It was a cheeky and calculated little con game, and Dawood pulled it off.

Sometimes, the odd Parsi gentleman would lodge a complaint with Pydhonie Police Station. If the police came looking for them, they would decamp for days and sometimes even months to their villages. These little games ser ved as a huge confidence-building exercise for Dawood and the rest of the gang, and they slowly but surely began to believe that they could pull off anything in this city.

10

Of Young Turks

ack in 1972, Bombay was made up of several constituencies and unlike the apathy between neighbours today, people knew everyone who lived in their Bneighbourhood. They knew, in particular, who the galli ka dada (local goon) was and which politician was thick with him. Baashu Dada was a well-known name in Teli Mohalla. Nobody dared cross his path in his backyard. One flex of his muscles, nursed carefully by the litres and litres of badam sherbet he downed during his daily baithaks, was enough to frighten away even the most fearless.

Baashu Dada always held his baithaks in the after noon when he deigned to step out of his den into his lair just outside. Surrounded by his henchmen and soothsayers, he reigned over his principality with the sceptre of fear and terror. On one such day, he rolled into Teli Mohalla in his swanky Mercedes-Benz. The car drew to a halt and Baashu lay one foot encased in a shiny white shoe on the ground, then the other, and swung gracefully out of the car. For a man of his size, his movements were amazingly lithe and graceful. Rashid came running to greet Dada and immediately fell to his knees in front of him. He was not paying some for m of medieval obeisance to Baashu, only tying a shoelace that had had the audacity to come undone on one of those spotless white shoes. Baashu never bowed before anyone, not even to tie his laces. The arrogance that gave rise to such behaviour is irksome. Baashu’s people quaked and cur tseyed and bent over two times to accommodate his every wish, request, and demand.

On that day, there was a football match being played, par t of a month-long tour nament. Cricket was not the popular game as it is today among dons. His men, the Pathans, were staunch fans of football and all their activities ceased for the ninety minutes that the game ensued. In Baashu’s baithak, this event acquired an almost festive air. In those days, the only way to be tuned in to the match was through the radio. So accordingly, on the day of the match, everything was set to just the right mood for Dada to enjoy the match. The radio was tuned to the right frequency, the charpoy laid out, the badam sherbet cooled to just the right temperature.

But there was a problem that had to be dealt with at the earliest and the unpleasant job of dealing with this problem lay with Rashid. He creased and uncreased his brow trying to portray a measure of composure, failing miserably.

The Maharashtra Assembly elections were around the cor ner. The Umarkhadi constituency was Baashu’s home territory and he liked to keep it that way.

However, things were not looking good this time round.

‘Dada,’ Rashid finally spoke up.

Baashu looked up in mild amusement at the quiver in Rashid’s voice.

‘Dada, election aa rahe hain [the elections are just round the corner],’ Rashid murmured.

Baashu stretched his back and leant on the charpoy. Rashid dropped the bomb, ‘ Maulana bohot ekdi dikha raha hai [Maulana is acting a bit too smar t].’ Finally it was out of his system!

Rashid’s declaration made Baashu sit up. The Maulana he was referring to was Maulana Zia-ud-din Bukhari, a respected leader of the local Muslim community.

The Maulana had always enjoyed Baashu’s suppor t, until now. Baashu had one very simple rule with politics—the winner of the seat in his constituency was simply the one who gave him more respect and more money.

He sat back in his charpoy in contemplation. No one was allowed to believe he was greater than Baashu. And God help the one who disturbs Baashu while he is listening to his match commentary, Rashid thought, as he waited.

In an ominous half whisper, Baashu replied at last, ‘Phir Maulana ko haarna hoga [then the Maulana will have to lose]!’

Rashid breathed out a sigh of relief. The worst had passed, he thought.

That same month, Maulana Zia-ud-din Bukhari lost the Maharashtra State Legislative Assembly Elections of 1972 to the candidate nominated by the Muslim League. He knew whose doing it was and he was not at all happy, of course. Baashu had beaten him at his game. He had pushed the Muslim League into nominating another candidate, Noor Mohammad, in his place and backed Noor Mohammad to win the election.

The Maulana put his wiles to use and thought up a two-step action plan to win back his good favour and pride. One morning, he went to Ibrahim Kaskar’s home with a unique proposal. After the requisite niceties were exchanged, he sprang his idea on the unsuspecting Ibrahim.

‘Ibrahim bhai, ek khayal aaya mere zehen mein , he began, ‘ hamare ladkein yun dinbhar awaaragardiyon mein masruf rehte hain. Kyun na unse kuch tamiri kaam karayein. [I have an idea. Our local boys are idling away their time through the day. Why not enlist them for more honourable purposes?]’

Ibrahim replied politely, ‘Ji main samjha nahi Maulana sahib [I’m not too sure I understand what you’re saying].’

‘Kyun na naujawanon ki ek anjuman banayi jaayi [why don’t we gather the boys for a cause]?’ the Maulana continued.

Ibrahim agreed, saying, ‘ Jee Maulana, jaisa aap theek samjhe. Hamari qaum ke naujawanon ko sahi raasta dikhana aapki buzurgi hai. Mere betein toh aapki

Ibrahim agreed, saying, ‘ Jee Maulana, jaisa aap theek samjhe. Hamari qaum ke naujawanon ko sahi raasta dikhana aapki buzurgi hai. Mere betein toh aapki khidmat mein hamesha haazir hai [as you wish Maulana, my sons will always be available to you].’

The Maulana left Ibrahim’s house very pleased. Next, he filed an appeal in the Bombay High Cour t alleging that the elections had been won by the MUL

through unfair means.

Ibrahim brought his sons together and infor med them of the Maulana’s plan. ‘Maulana’s suggestion is almost like a fir man of god for me. You all should join his jammaat and work hard to improve your community,’ said Ibrahim. They were all excited at the thought of the youth of the neighbourhood uniting under one banner. And once the idea had Ibrahim’s approval, all the families in the neighbourhood were keen to have their sons par ticipate. It was decided that the group be called ‘Young Par ty’, appropriately. They began with activities like decorating the neighbourhood for festivals and organising rallies. Then, the Maulana’s idea caught the fancy of the neighbourhood and the numbers of the Young Party swelled to mammoth proportions.

However, there was a setback; the Bombay High Cour t dismissed the Maulana’s plea. The Maulana took his appeal to the Supreme Cour t but the apex cour t too upheld the decision of the High Cour t. Dejected and disappointed, the Maulana then withdrew from all fur ther activities of the Young Par ty and gradually faded away from public involvement with electioneering in the area.

But in the meanwhile, the Young Par ty’s popularity had given rise to another idea in the mind of young Dawood. Canny as ever, he saw this as a golden opportunity to showcase his leadership skills and influence the other youth to do his bidding.

Pakhmodia Street and Musafirkhana ear ned another leader with the loss of one. There was now a board at the beginning of the street proclaiming it as the territory of the Young Party, one that was led by the formidable Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar.

Dawood was going past Kedy company, a high-rise in Nagpada, on his motorbike when he saw Karim Siddiqui’s nephew rushing towards him. The youth, a very close friend of Dawood’s, was severely bruised. He stopped Dawood and said to him, ‘ Hamid ne phir mujhe peeta Dawood bhai [Hamid thrashed me again, Dawood bhai]!’Dawood was enraged. The brothers Hamid and Majid were annoying him to no end. Hamid, a brawny Pathan who believed he could take on anybody and Majid, a drug addict who was wasting away in the by-lanes of Dongri, were flies Dawood could have swatted away long ago, but for Baashu Dada, who enlisted their ser vices. And no matter what, Dawood still had respect for Dada; not because of any of his personal attributes but because of the mutual respect between Ibrahim Kaskar and Baashu. Never theless, it was time to put Hamid in his place. He asked Siddiqui to get on his bike and they sped off towards Hamid’s home.

Face-to-face with Hamid, Dawood could not control his temper at Hamid’s behaviour.

‘Behanchod, tu bahot bada shaana ho gaya hai kya bambai ka [sisterfucker, you’ve become too big for your boots]!’ he roared.

‘Nahin Dawood bhai, kuchch ghalat fehmi hui hai [no, Dawood bhai, there seems to have been a misunderstanding],’ Hamid quivered.

‘Ek baat sun le, Baashu Dada ka moonh dekh kar maine tujhe baksh diya, nahin toh tera kheema banake rakh deta [now remember one thing: I’ve spared you all this while only because of Baashu Dada, else I surely would made mincemeat of you],’ Dawood thundered.

Hamid had seen his death in Dawood’s eyes. He knew very well that he would have been dead meat but for Baashu’s name, a veritable suit of armour for him.

Fuming at his inability to do anything to Hamid, Dawood stor med out. Meanwhile, Hamid star ted thinking quickly. He knew that sooner or later the news would reach Baashu’s ears. Wouldn’t it be better if he, Hamid, was the source? With all this and more on his mind, he went to Baashu’s darbar. Baashu was trying to enjoy what was left of one of the tournament’s matches. He was already annoyed by the Maulana’s uppity behaviour and now here was Hamid.

‘Dada, Dawood ne aapko maa-behen ki gaali di [Dada, Dawood hurled some rather tasteless abuses at you]!’ Hamid exclaimed.

An enraged Baashu, unable to bear the idea that someone could have the temerity to insult him, let alone a young boy on the rise, rose from his charpoy immediately. He asked for Ibrahim, Rahim, and Sabir to be summoned to the baithak. His football match had now completely gone for a toss!

Ibrahim, Rahim, and Sabir, still a lad, came, and stood in front of Baashu, surrounded by the don’s men.

‘Dawood ne mujhe maa-behen ki gaali di Ibrahim. Sambhalo apne chhokre ko [Dawood has abused me Ibrahim, you better keep a check on your son]!’ Baashu raged.

‘Galti ho gayi hogi ladke se Dada. Maaf kar dijiye [he’s made a mistake Dada, please forgive him],’ Rahim ventured.

‘Galti [mistake]!” the don bellowed.

Addressing Sabir he said, ‘ Jab tere baap ke paas tum log ko khilane ke bhi paise nahi the tab maine sahara diya. Aur ab tum log sab saale behenchod log, usi thaali ko gaali deta hai! Tum logon ne mere ehsaanon ka yeh sila diya hain, is tarah namakharaami karke [I helped your father when he had nothing to feed you all.

And today, you people bite the hand that feeds you]!’

‘Dafa ho jao yahan se [get lost]!’ he said, with a wave of his hand.

Ibrahim and Sabir walked out clutching what little dignity remained while Rahim stood where he was. The word ehsaan (favour) and namakharaami (disloyalty) kept ringing in the ears of the father and son.

‘Aapko chhote ladke ko aisa nahi bolna chahiye tha Dada [Dada, you shouldn’t have spoken to the little boy like that],’ Rahim reasoned.

‘Chhota ladka? Usike chhote bhai ne meri maa-behen ka naam apni gandi zubaan se nikala aur main kya tamasha dekhta rahun? Nahi Rahim! [Little boy? The little boy’s younger brother abused me and you expect me to be a mute spectator? No Rahim!]’ Baashu raged.

Sabir, meanwhile, retur ned home and began to sob. While it was well-known that the family of four teen often faced difficulty in getting by, because of Sabir, meanwhile, retur ned home and began to sob. While it was well-known that the family of four teen often faced difficulty in getting by, because of Ibrahim’s popularity in the neighbourhood no one had ever spoken a word in public about it. Now the fact that Baashu had insulted his father to this extent was unbearable to Sabir, and he could not control his tears. Ibrahim himself maintained a stunned silence and a stoic face. Dawood heard of the series of events from Sabir and his blood boiled. He could not bear to see his father and brother insulted and dishonoured like this by another man. Vowing revenge, he vowed to bring the empire and the pride of Baashu Dada crashing down.

11

David Versus Goliath

awood’s presence in Dongri was growing increasingly powerful. A mere lad, he had already surprised people with his adeptness and ability to plan Dmeticulously with a sharp mind. The Young Party was also gaining fame and their activities did not stop at the Eid-e-Milad processions they had begun with.

They were now notorious for extor tion. Along with Hanif Kutta and Sayed Razi alias Rajji, they extor ted money from all and sundry under the pretext of meeting expenses for weddings and funerals in poor families. The moneyed would be asked to ‘contribute’ to the wedding coffers or funeral expenses of the poor, or else face Dawood’s ire. Playing partly on the emotions of the people and partly on their fear, Dawood and his pals created the perfect con strategy.

The Young Par ty, of course, had been created to fur ther the aims of Maulana Zia-ud-Din Bukhari. However, not only was Bukhari no more involved with the Young Par ty, but the par ty itself had become a front for criminal activities, albeit of a non-violent nature. It was around this time, circa 1974, that Ibrahim Kaskar and Sabir were humiliated by Baashu. The problem that faced the young Dawood was very grave. He truly loved his father and brother. No matter his general impunity, where his father and brother were concer ned, he was generally with his head bowed in their presence out of fondness and respect. Baashu, a mere goon, had shamed both of them and even listed all the favours he had done for Ibrahim over the years. The more Dawood thought about it, the more he regarded it a faulty assessment.

He knew how much Baashu owed his father. A lot of Baashu’s smuggled goods had been released with the assistance of Ibrahim Kaskar. When Baashu’s goods would get caught in the docks, Ibrahim would be away for days, wheeling and dealing and peddling favours to get it released. His father had helped Baashu make his millions to buy his Mercedes and custom-made white shoes while he gave Dawood’s family a mere pittance from time to time. And in exchange for that small amount of money that changed hands, he had insulted Dawood’s family. This was absolutely unacceptable.

Rahim chacha tried to console Dawood and coax him into calming down, ‘ Gussa achi baat nahi. Chalke Baashu bhai ki galat fehmi door karo. [Anger is not good. Let’s go to Baashu and clear this misunderstanding.]’ But his ser mons were falling on deaf ears. There was no way Dawood was going to see anyone else’s way. He knew that Baashu would have to go. In the quiet manner that was somehow also menacing, Dawood retor ted, ‘ Baashu Dada ko yeh baat badi mehengi padegi [Baashu will have to pay for this].’ At these ominous words, Rahim chacha’s blood froze.

The Juma Namaaz had just finished and it was a hot 2 pm on Friday. Baashu Dada offered his prayers in a masjid near Mastaan Talao. Dawood and his gang were waiting for Baashu. Hanif Kutta, Rajji, Sultan, Abu Bakr, and Sabir were with him. Sabir was against the idea of attacking Baashu, fearing reprisal, and he had told Dawood as much. But Dawood had made up his mind. They were all standing together near Pir Khan Street, a little ahead of JJ Square, waiting for Baashu to emerge through the archway.

It was not a very long wait because Dawood had planned the operation to its finest detail. They saw Baashu appear on schedule, accompanied by his pehelwans (musclemen). Responding to a cue from Dawood, the gang began throwing soda water bottles and used electric bulbs at the don. Soda water bottles as weapons?

Now that was a first! The gang continued to throw bottles incessantly, even hitting some passers-by.

If those around were shocked, Baashu was stunned. Firstly, absolutely nobody attacks Baashu Dada and to add salt to injury, soda water bottles were a belittling choice of weapons. This was the first time an incident like this had taken place, but in the riots that broke out in the following years, bottles came to be commonly used.

As he got over the initial shock, Baashu regained his composure and decided to take on Dawood singlehandedly, in man-to-man combat. Baashu knew that Dawood was no match for him and Dawood himself was not ignorant of this. He had even anticipated that Baashu would try something like this. So he began to target Baashu specifically, before it came to this pass. He rained bottle after bottle on Baashu while his boys took on the other pehelwans.

Finally, one of the pehelwans managed to pull the black Mercedes out of its parking slot. Baashu and Umar Pehelwan were seriously injured by this time, and as Baashu saw the car coming towards him, he realised it made sense to retreat when they were so seriously set back. The don and his pehelwans scrambled into the car, some of them even getting in through the windows as the car picked up speed, in their desperation to get away.

Dawood and his boys continued with their bottles-and-bulbs attack. Even as the gangsters retreated, the boys managed to shatter the car’s rear window and tail lights, and made huge, satisfying dents in the luxury car’s shiny exterior.

As the car drove away, the boys began to celebrate their unheard of victory. But Dawood had other things on his mind. He was not satisfied. He was not done with Baashu. Not done with teaching him a lesson and not yet done with his revenge.

Picking up their motorcycles, the gang went to Temkar Mohalla where Baashu’s darbar and akhada were erected to massage his ego.

The traditional akhada is a big ring-like space surrounded by mirrors where people can pump iron, jest, duel, and keep fit. Baashu’s akhada had a speciality. A place of pride in the akhada was given to the badam sherbet-making machine. Dawood took to the walls with a hockey stick. He shattered the mirrors brutally, remembering how Baashu had humiliated his family. Together, the young Dawood and his gang destroyed the entire akhada; the mirrors, the fur niture, the equipment, and even the sherbet-making machine. It broke the spine of Baashu Dada.

Unable to face himself after this episode, Baashu withdrew from public life. The akhada was an integral par t of Baashu and his aura, and when it was utterly destroyed, he was finished. And when luck tur ns, even the oldest and most faithful ser vant seeks greener pastures. Why would Baashu’s case be any different?

Soon after this incident, Baashu was detained by the Bombay Police under the National Security Act (NSA), entailing a year-long detention without bail. The Soon after this incident, Baashu was detained by the Bombay Police under the National Security Act (NSA), entailing a year-long detention without bail. The charge of Teli Mohalla was handed over to Khalid pehelwan. This was an oppor tunity for what was soon to become a signature Dawood move; Khalid, despite being Baashu’s right-hand man, had been treated as just another minion in Baashu’s fiefdom. Dawood moved fast to ear n the loyalty of Baashu’s Man Friday. He made sure to impress upon Khalid that he did not bear any enmity or rancour towards him, and would be glad if Khalid joined him. So, with one swift move, Dawood effectively emasculated Baashu and brought an end to his reign.

After this, even after he retur ned from jail, Baashu refused to meet anybody and never again did he set foot in Temkar Mohalla. He divided his time between his houses in Hyderabad and Walkeshwar and was rarely heard of again.

12

The First Blood

couple of years later, when Dawood Ibrahim heard that Bombay’s reigning Gold King, Haji Mastan Mirza, had got some Pathans to beat up two of his cronies, Ahe was seething with revenge. Nobody knew exactly why Mastan decided to beat up Abu Bakr and Ejaz, but he had now strayed into Dawood’s territory. He wanted to get even with Mastan, who he thought had gar nered enough glory by smuggling gold and silver. Resting on the laurels of Mastan was the ‘Madrasi’, Varda bhai. Dawood knew that Mastan was not a man of action; he had never done anything to asser t his might in the city. He believed that such a man had no right or authority to rule over the city. And Dawood had had enough of his photographs being splashed in the newspapers while attending various film mahurats .

Bollywood was obsessed with Mastan and sought to epitomise him in forthcoming movies.

This just was not right to Dawood’s mind. So, while a seemingly har mless group of boys and men were caught up in a heated discussion on 4 December 1974, one of them, young Dawood Ibrahim, was masterminding the gangster’s downfall.

After toppling the might of Baashu and staking his claim as the big boss of Dongri, Dawood felt he could do just about anything in Bombay and get away with it.

Offence is the best for m of defence and the best way to take revenge is to hit where it hur ts most. For Mastan, money was everything. So, Dawood decided to get even with Mastan by stealing a chunk of his black money. On that December mor ning, the group had received intelligence from their local spy network; in mafia parlance, ‘tip mili’. The tip-off was that some angadia was going to carry 5 lakh rupees belonging to Mastan from an office in Masjid Bunder to his house at Malabar Hill.

Angadias in Bombay are unofficial money carriers, acting like a local for m of Wester n Union, and generally hail from the Marwari community. It was spontaneously decided to deny Mastan this much of his precious cash as compensation for all the beatings and tor ture meted out to their two dear friends for no rhyme or reason. For the Dongri youth, this was a matter of prestige, as they felt obliged to avenge their friends’ beatings. Also, the two were par t of Dawood’s gang, and were his friends. Out of a sense of loyalty for his boys, Dawood could not simply tur n away and ignore the whole episode. Back in those days, 5 lakh was a huge amount. These young men had never seen so much money earlier. While they were a bit ner vous about the plan, there was also a cer tain complacency; they had heard that the angadias were foolish enough to carry this kind of money around unescorted.

Dawood and his band of cronies decided to strike when the angadia left from Masjid Bunder and moved towards the Car nac Bunder Bridge. As Musafirkhana was the area where Dawood ruled the roost, he knew the area like the back of his hand. He also knew how he could intercept vehicles, trap the money, and disappear in a crowd without the cops or anybody else getting wind of him.

He gathered seven boys around him, including Abu Bakr, Yusuf Khan, Ejaz Jinki, Aziz Driver, Abdul Muttalib, Sayyed Sultan, and Sher Khan. Among these seven, the latter two were his favourites.

Sayyed Sultan Ayubi had strong shoulders, bulging biceps, and a powerful body. The 20-year-old had just been voted as Mr Bombay and was vying for the top title at the body-building competition that would begin as par t of Mr India in the following year. In the seventies, muscular men were a rarity. Even the popular Hindi films of the time spor ted clean-cut, chocolate-faced heroes like Rajesh Khanna and Jitendra. So when Ayubi graduated from Mr Bombay to Mr Maharashtra to Mr India, he managed to remain consistently in the news with pictures of his awe-inspiring torso. Legend has it that when he strolled on the Marine Drive promenade in south Bombay, women were beguiled by his very broad shoulders. The other, Sher Khan Pathan aka Sher Singh, was well-known for his loud, bone-chilling voice, which inspired great fear in people.

Dawood at the time was barely out of his teens and had just acquired a moustache. He had developed all the traits of a typical Dongri lad; the lingo, the chicanery, the know-it-all attitude, yet he was regarded as a greenhor n in the underworld, as he did not have the kind of money that Baashu or Haji Mastan did, and everyone thought of him simply as a wannabe don.

Car nac Bunder area lies at the periphery of Bombay’s three big markets Mohatta Market, Manish Market, and Crawford Market, a legacy of the colonial era.

The entire area was at the time a hub for all the wholesale and retail markets for all agricultural produce. The place was a madhouse as all the traders and long distance trucks offloaded their goods here. It was always teeming with handcar ts, por ters carrying gunny bags or trunks on their shoulder, cabs moving in and out of the market with goods laden either in their boot or on their overhead carrier space. There was an air of urgency with the hectic activity ongoing everywhere.

The amateur robbers had seen a lot of movies and wanted to make a reproduction of their meticulous planning and preparation. So, two men were stationed theatrically at the Car nac Bunder Bridge while two men were standing near Musafirkhana, to efficiently seal off both the entry and exit points of the cab. The men were ar med with iron rods, sticks, and choppers. The remaining lads were supposed to intercept the cab. These men were carrying choppers, knives, and country-made revolver called katta. Somehow, by sheer coincidence or simply bad planning, the major players like Ayubi, Abu Bakr, Hanif, and others were either stationed on the bridge or left behind and by default Dawood got pushed to the forefront. Perhaps it was destiny or his own bravado, but he ended up leading the team of seven men who, willy-nilly, were in charge of intercepting the cab. The moment the cab came out of the narrow lane of Dana Bunder and moved out towards the road that connected with Carnac Bunder towards the market, they would spring into action.

Around 2 pm, as the cab drew out from the road below the Car nac Bunder Bridge that links Crawford Market to P. D’Mello Road, the infor mant pointed out the vehicle, implying that this was the car carrying the cash. Surprisingly, the taxi had two Marwari-looking men seated in the passenger seat and an escor t in the front seat next to the driver. As it slowly made its way from the bridge towards the route that led to Mohammed Ali Road, the seven men positioned to attack ran towards the cab at once, their arsenal ready and drawn.

No instructions were given and there was no coordination at all between the team members. The whole gang of seven men had swung into action in the most haphazard manner. The first strike was made by Sher Khan, who took the handcar t and rammed it against the cab, bringing it to a screeching halt. Even before haphazard manner. The first strike was made by Sher Khan, who took the handcar t and rammed it against the cab, bringing it to a screeching halt. Even before the Marwaris or the driver could comprehend anything, Sher Pathan the body builder opened the driver’s door and threatened the driver, instructing him not to move.

The sight of seven men surrounding them was a menacing one for the Marwari businessmen. The weapons froze their blood. Dawood was the first one to speak. He asked them not to make noise or do anything foolhardy that could endanger their lives. ‘ Agar halak se awaz nikli, to zindagi bhar nahi niklegi, kyunke main tumhare gardan kat lunga [if I hear your voice emerge from your throat, it’ll never make a sound again, because I’ll slit it],’ he said, steely and calmly.

The final act belonged to Dawood, who opened the door of the passenger’s seat, looked at the Marwari seth with fire in his eyes and asked, ‘ Maal kaha hai

[where is the money]?’ The menacing tone and the icy glare of the lanky 19-year-old sent shivers down the spines of the Marwari seths. Both stared at each other, speechless. The time they were wasting in indecisive fear made Dawood impatient. He slapped one of them, hard enough to make his spectacles fall to his lap, and said, ‘Mere paas zyada waqt nahi hai tumhare saath baat karne ko [I don’t have much time to talk to you]!’

With that he grabbed the bag that the seth had on him and opened it. ‘ Aur kaha hai [where is the rest]?’ he asked. The seth, with a trembling hand, pointed towards the boot of the car. Dawood waved to Ejaz, who went and lifted the hood. There, he found a small black box, locked and sealed.

Now that Dawood had both the bags, he did not waste any time. He immediately signalled to his boys to move and all of them disappeared on foot from the scene of the robbery, leaving behind two seths and a cab driver, shaken and stunned in their seats. When the Marwaris finally got over their shock, they decided to approach the police. At the Pydhonie Police Station, they registered a complaint, CR No. 725/74, under the section of dacoity and armed robbery.

Dawood and his men did not realise they had committed the biggest bank robbery of the decade. This was the first time such an audacious robbery had taken place, executed by seven inexperienced men who had by luck carried off their feat.

At the time, Dawood was three weeks shy of his 19 th bir thday. What he did not know was that he had actually robbed money that belonged to the Metropolitan Cooperative Bank, not Haji Mastan. The amount looted on that day was 4, 75, 000 rupees and it immediately brought the whole focus of the crime on one youth, Dawood Ibrahim. He was front-page news in the city the next day.

Ibrahim Kaskar was speechless when he heard of his son’s temerity. After being suspended Ibrahim had resigned, and was let go unofficially from the elite Crime Branch of the Bombay police only a few years ago, but was still highly respected in police circles. In the predominantly Muslim stronghold of Dongri, Ibrahim’s baithak was the first place people went to if they had a problem. It was privy to everything—from people discussing their choking lavatory drain to the excitement of the elopement of lovers or cases of police harassment. When Dawood and Sabir picked fights on the streets or indulged in other misdeeds, Ibrahim felt small but ignored them, while putting their delinquency down to the passion of youth. But this incident threatened to destroy his hard-ear ned respect and reputation.

That evening, out of shame and embarrassment, Ibrahim did not even go down to his baithak. He did not have the courage to face people and their queries about Dawood. He was reminded of the seer’s prediction about his second bor n, who would be known for his success and power. His son had indeed found power, but he had, in the process, defamed him. Ibrahim had to hide his face even from his friends.

In the meanwhile, the Bombay police were at the boys’ heels and while the other members of the gang were caught without much effor t by the police, the Kaskar brothers, Dawood and Sabir, proved elusive. The day after the daring robbery, a constable knocked at Ibrahim Bhai’s house and asked him to see the officer at the Crime Branch. Ibrahim, who was squatting on the ground, thumped his hand on the floor, all the while cursing himself. He was expecting this. It is not known what transpired behind the closed doors of the Crime Branch, but Ibrahim’s friends say he was very grim and had resolved to drag his sons to the police station, allowing the law to take its own course.

Ibrahim had his own network of friends and well-wishers and he worked all of them to trace the duo. They had not come home for two days. After days of intensive search and pursuit, finally the enraged father heard his sons were hiding at a friend’s house in Byculla. He picked them up and brought them back to their house. As they stood with their heads bowed, their mother Amina raving and ranting, he went to the loft and opened an old steel cupboard. He came down bearing a thick leather belt that he had worn proudly as the Head Constable of the Crime Branch. When he came down, his sons looked at him with fear, dreading what was to come. But they dared not move an inch.

Neighbours still recall the hammering that Dawood and Sabir were subjected to, for a whole day and night. They screamed and the entire neighbourhood trembled at the brutal punishment. Ibrahim belted both incessantly, so much so that the skin on their backs peeled and bled; both of them were reduced to a heap, lying in a corner of the room. Ibrahim finally stopped when he was overpowered by his friends and they snatched the belt from his hand.

Still, this father did not relent. Even before Amina could offer them food or water, Ibrahim dragged his sons out of the house, put them in a cab and took them to the Crime Branch. He threw his sons at the feet of the officers and folded his hands as he wept. Before leaving the Crime Branch, Ibrahim apologised profusely to the officers and asked them to forgive him and his sons for their disgraceful act. When the Crime Branch officers looked at Dawood and Sabir, witnessing their pathetic plight and Ibrahim’s sincerity, they spared the boys their own stock of blows.

This was the first case of a severe reprisal that came most naturally to Dawood. This incident, this one shot of adrenalin and the 15 minutes of fame that followed, is perhaps the event that gave birth to the man who would one day become Dawood Ibrahim, the don.

13

A Seed is Sown

war m breeze braced with the crispness of January swept through the congested by-lanes of Dongri. Here the quaint old building of Dongri Police Station had Astood for decades like a lone sentinel in one of the most infamous neighbourhoods of Bombay. Senior Police Inspector Ranbeer Likha sat at his desk.

Nor mally, he was lulled into drowsiness by the regular monotony of trains crossing Sandhurst Road and the domestic sounds emanating from Smith House, just outside Sandhurst Road station. But on this par ticular after noon, Senior Police Inspector Likha had other things on his mind. He was listening to the patient voice of Head Constable Dilip Mane registering the complaint of a bakery worker who had been beaten up within an inch of his life for delaying the payment of the monthly instalment of his loan to the local Pathan, Asif Khan. It was the third such complaint being registered that afternoon.

Likha was silently seething at the sheer audacity of the Pathans, who engineered their machinations in plain sight of both civilians and police. Ordinary citizens, workers, and even traders were harassed by Pathans either for extor tion because of proper ty disputes or failure to retur n a Pathan’s interest on his money. This was his second stint at Dongri Police Station and the menace had only escalated since 1960.

As he mulled over the situation, he suddenly realised there might be a way out. He called Constable Gogte and asked him to make a visit to Musafirkhana at Pakmodia Street and ask Ibrahim Kaskar to visit him at his convenience.

Ibrahim might have retired as a mere Head Constable in the Crime Branch but his clout in the area was much more than that of a DCP or prominent social worker. And Ibrahim on his part was ever willing to help the needy and destitute, or his own department whenever they needed his services.

Ibrahim Bhai entered the police station and took his seat opposite Likha. It was Likha who seemed more in awe of the person who came in, rather than the other way round.

A concer ned Likha got to the point quickly. ‘Ibrahim bhai, yeh kya ho raha hai? Karim miyan se baat karo. Kuch kar na padega. Pathanon ki harkatein hadh se bahar hain ab! [Ibrahim Bhai, why is this happening these days? Please speak with Karim Lala. Something needs to be done. The Pathans’ antics are clearly going out of hand!]’

Ibrahim Kaskar shuffled anxiously as he sat before the visibly upset senior officer and tried to reassure him, saying, ‘Sahab, main baat kar ta hun Karim bhai se.

Pehle bhi kahan hai maine unse, woh bahut qaedey ke aadmi hain… woh meri baat kabhi nahin taalte… yeh doosre log hain jo unki bhi nahin soonte hain, main kuch kar ta hun... jo ban sake. [I will speak with him. He is a good man. He will listen to me. Unfor tunately there are some in his group who don’t even listen to him.]’

A reassured Likha exhaled, knowing all would be well again. Everyone knew how well-respected Ibrahim was in his community and that he had considerable clout even amongst the much-feared Pathans. While the rest of the police ranks quaked at the mention of dealing with the Pathans, the dignified Ibrahim Kaskar quietly enjoyed mutual respect even with the Pathan mafia.

The Pathan mafia were at the height of their rule over the city. Their sheer power and hold over the community ensured they stayed protected and camouflaged within it. They knew that as long as they could maintain that aura of menacing evil that mafia legends are made of, they would be on top. For them the gover nment, authority, police, law of the land, and such things did not matter. What mattered was power and money. As Karim Lala often said, ‘

Duniya ko

mutthi mein rakhna seekho, haath kholo sirf paisa lene ke liye. [Learn to clench the world in your fist. Open your palm only when you have to receive money.]’

Likha knew Ibrahim was a man who could be held to his word, if he said that the Pathans’ behaviour would be kept in control. A mere remark to Ibrahim had several times in the past shown tangible results in ter ms of the period of peace that ensued, and these periods had often been timed perfectly to pacify the administration. This was, of course, the same administration which raised questions about the inaction of the police or its brutality at different times, depending largely on their stand in the Legislative Assembly.

This time, however, Ibrahim seemed to be losing his touch. Several after noons came and went and there seemed no end to the Pathan menace. They had in fact become even more adamant and set on misbehaving. Once, Hamid Khan Pathan was summoned to Dongri. Hamid Khan was a monster at six and a half feet and his gait sent people around him scurrying, for fear of getting in his way. Amir Zada, Alamzeb, and their brothers were also slowly gaining notoriety in the area and inspiring similar fear.

Hamid Khan, for example, stor med into the police station and smashed a huge table at the station house office with his bare hands; lifting the massive table above his head, he then crushed it by dropping it to the floor. The whole posse of cops, including constables and officers, were reduced to gibbering spectators.

Likha realised that Ibrahim’s conferences with Karim Khan were not bearing the desired results. He dreaded that the situation was going to get out of hand if something drastic was not done, and done soon. He was after all in charge of his pack and his jurisdiction, and he was doing a very bad job of managing both, at the moment. It would not be long before someone else noticed and made him the scapegoat. As he sat there, however, twisting his mind into knots, the doors swung and Iqbal Natiq breezed in.

Mohammad Iqbal Natiq, then 35 years old, is the rare over night success story of a self-made Bombay jour nalist. He edited and published an Urdu weekly called Raazdaar (The Confidante).

Jour nalism in India or Bombay was still in its infancy, at this time. However, the city never had a shor tage of tabloids and newspapers ser ving a par ticular Jour nalism in India or Bombay was still in its infancy, at this time. However, the city never had a shor tage of tabloids and newspapers ser ving a par ticular segment, region or an area. After working as a freelance jour nalist and columnist in established papers, Natiq launched his own paper from Dongri in 1969 at the age of 26, as was the tradition for aspiring young reporters like him.

In two years, Natiq managed to tur n around his life, going from struggling jour nalist to successful newspaper owner and editor. From owning his own press to driving a spanking new white Ambassador, Natiq began to rise, rubbing shoulders with the elite.

‘In fact, my father provided so much luxury to us that despite being a six-year-old at the time, I could never travel in anything but his car, and would refuse to wear plastic slippers,’ recounts his 35-year-old commerce graduate son, Parvez Natiq, who is a successful professional photographer in the city today.

Raazdaar, which is a dismissible rag by any judgement, was a typical tabloid known for sensationalism and its habit of exposing local bigwigs. Operating from his first floor small house in the BIT Chawls near JJ Hospital, Natiq had managed to strike a good rapport with local cops and instil fear in the minds of the goons of the area; it was the language they spoke.

Natiq could enter any senior cop’s office unannounced and could recklessly write about any mafia biggie, thus acquiring the reputation of a righteous jour nalist who did not fear anyone, not even death.

One man who openly admired him and proudly proclaimed his friendship with him was Dawood. ‘Bande mein dum hain [this guy has some substance]’, he used to tell his friends. Both Natiq and Dawood hailed from Ratnagiri, but more resilient a bond than their common native place was the intrinsic chutzpah they both had. Natiq looked at Dawood as an underdog pitted against the mighty Goliaths of the time, comprising money bags like Baashu Dada and Haji Mastan and the cunning Karim Lala, Amirzada, and Alamzeb, both budding warlords in the Pathan syndicate.

Natiq was a frequent visitor in the darbar of Likha, in keeping with the long time motto of crime repor ters: to be where the action is. On this visit, he took one look at Likha and saw all was not well. Not that it was to be expected; after all, Dongri was not Pleasantville. But what could make Likha look as especially perturbed as he did today?

A few mandatory pleasantries later, Iqbal asked, ‘ Kya baat hai saab? Aap ki badli kaa order nikla hain ya kuch aur baat hain? [What’s the matter? You’ve been issued a transfer order or something?]’

Likha replied with the ferocity of a man plagued by an issue, ‘ Yahan kuch alag hota hai kya kabhi? Yeh behanchod Pathanon ne dimaag ki maa chod daali hain.

Ye sale jaanwar Pathan kisiko peet dete hain ye aapas mein ladhte hain! Naak mein dam kar diya hai saalon ne! [Does anything different ever happen here? Either the Pathans trouble someone else, or they’re fighting amongst themselves. I’m so tired of them!]’

Iqbal gave a lopsided smile and reclined in his chair. His expression spoke more about his take on the issue than his tongue chose to. Almost like a quip, he said,

‘Sahab, Sholay.’

‘Sholay?! Dimaag ghar par chod aaye kya Iqbal? [Sholay? Have you lost your mind, Iqbal? ]’ Likha replied, more confused than ever.

Iqbal’s smile morphed from humorous to mysterious. ‘Loha lohe ko kaatta hai [you use iron to combat iron].’ he said.

The famous line that the handicapped Thakur Baldev Singh of Sholay had told the cop in the film had become so famous that whenever repeated, it conveyed its meaning in its perfect sense.

Understanding dawned. Sceptically, he asked, ‘Magar in Pathanon se kaun uljhega [but who will deal with the Pathans]?’

Iqbal spoke with authority, ‘Hai ek ladka, Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar [there is a boy, Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar].’

Likha recoiled at the name. ‘Tumhara matlab hai... Ibrahim bhai ka chokra... na baba na [You mean Ibrahim’s son? No way!]…’ he trailed off.

Iqbal nodded and rose to leave. As a parting shot to the already reeling Likha, he said, ‘Mohalle mein sab ko pata hai, bahut himmat hai usme [everybody in the locality knows that the boy is courageous].’

Now it was Likha’s tur n to recline and contemplate. Yes, Ibrahim Kaskar’s son was a neighbourhood ruffian, a small-time hood, that much he knew, although this thought in itself was hard to digest. But to contemplate actually trying to use him as a pawn to uproot the Pathans? How on ear th would he outwit and neutralise the Pathans? He was only a chit of a boy after all. Barely in his twenties and he had all the characteristics and trappings of a street fighter.

Dramatic dialogues from blockbusters were all very well, he thought, but Iqbal must have been out of his mind to even suggest such a thing. This was not reel life, where the underdog rookie upstages the reigning don. This was real life, where there was the reality of his age and position to consider. And the staid Ibrahim Kaskar’s son at that! Outrageous, Likha thought! Almost laughable! He dismissed it and went back to the game of ping pong ricocheting in his mind before Iqbal had entered.

‘Boys upstaging dons,’ he sniggered. He sighed. ‘Crime reporters and their imagination, never a combination to be taken seriously.’

Days passed and Likha remained gloomy over the deterioration of the law and order situation in his jurisdiction. Then, one day a small encounter scripted the destiny of both the cops and the crime bosses.

It had been an idyllic mor ning thus far, unmarred by anything unpleasant. As Likha was on a routine patrol, his jeep tur ned from Khada Parsi junction towards JJ Hospital. Soon he realised he was stuck in a massive traffic jam; the vehicles were honking and there was no way that his police jeep could inch forward.

Furious, he jumped out and charged towards the source of the jam. He spotted a small group of people collected on the roadside, obviously enjoying some kind of spectacle. The crowd parted when they spotted a three star officer approaching in angry mode. What Likha saw made him speechless.

A Pathan was bleeding profusely from his head and mouth and a youth, his shir t tor n, was hitting him left, right, and centre. ‘Now I have to break up these measly fights too’, he thought at first, resigned. But then he saw the boy; barely 20 years old, shor t in stature, and beating up a taller, stouter Pathan. The sight amazed him. Although Likha had no love lost for the Pathans, he actually felt sympathy for this man, who must have lost a lot of blood and self-esteem. Curious, he pulled the boy away by the scruff of his shirt and asked, ‘Aye, kya naam hai tera [hey, what’s your name]?’

The boy stared right back into his eyes and replied, ‘Dawood. Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar. Policewale ka bachcha hun main! [I’m the son of a cop]!’

Senior Police Inspector Ranbeer Likha froze. One word rang in his ears like a prophecy. ‘Sholay!’An idea took root in his mind.

Swiftly, he pulled him out of the crowd and shooed bystanders away. He felt invincible, as though he was riding on the most incredible luck ever. He could not think of anything other than the brilliant idea that had been planted in his head by Natiq and that he now knew would reach fruition by means of this boy in front of him.

Trying to collect himself, he asked Dawood, ‘Chal gaadi mein baith [let’s go sit in the car].’

Dawood eyed him quizzically and sat in the jeep quietly, but with an air of composure far beyond his years, calling another lad nearby and telling him, ‘ Aye ghar pe boll thoda late ho jayega [inform them at home that I’ll be a little late today].’

‘Pathanon se ladhne ka bahut shauq hai tujhe [you like to fight with Pathans]?’ Likha asked, sitting next to him.

‘Shauq nahin sahib, zaroorat hain. Ladenge nahin toh mit jayenge [it’s not that I like to, if we don’t fight, we’ll perish],’Dawood tried to explain.

‘Aisa kuch kyon nahin kar te joh tumhaari ladaee hamare kaam aa sake [why don’t you do something that makes your fight with the Pathans aid us as well]?’

Likha asked, tentatively.

‘Aisa kaise ho sakta hain, sahib [how is that possible]?’ Dawood said, curiously.

‘Wohi jo tu kar raha hain… qanoon haath mein liye bagair qanoon ki madad karo. Pathanon ko apne qabu mein kar lo. Tum mera yeh kaam karo. Baaki main sambhal lunga [Continue to do what you’re doing, but instead of taking the law in your hands, you can do it with the law by your side. Defeat the Pathans for me and I will handle the rest],’ Likha replied fiercely.

It was then that the balance of power shifted in Dawood’s mind; the baton passed from Likha to Dawood. Instead of being Likha’s main man, Likha would now be his main man. Such was the thinking of Dawood. So, the foundation of a new rule was laid, and at last, a don was officially born.

The police jeep had now slowed down and was about to turn left to move towards the Noorbaug junction for Dongri Police Station.

‘Theek hain saab gaadi roko, mera ghar aagaya… sochkar bolta hoon [Ok, sir stop the car as my house has come. I’ll think about this and get back to you],’ said Dawood. Likha was taken aback at the casual way in which the boy was addressing a senior police officer. The jeep halted at the intersection of the JJ Hospital.

Dawood waved at Likha and crossed the road, heading home.

14

Beginning of the Bloodshed

qbal Natiq had an inherent dislike of the Pathans and their reprobate ways. For Dawood, Natiq was an embodiment of courage, one who lived correctly amongst Ithe Pathans like Amirzada, Alamzeb, Ayub Lala, and Saeed Batla, who had a wayward way of life. He even defied them and consistently exposed their misdeeds.

But Natiq failed to draw a line between bravery and recklessness. At last, his fight to unmask the truth took him too far.

Now, Dawood was Natiq’s main source for most of his stories. Dawood’s boys used to collect street level intelligence and paan shop gossip and pass it onto Natiq, who made headlines of these meaty tales. Most of the time, the stories were unverified plants but Natiq trusted Dawood enough to take the risk. He was never sued though he faced some subtle threats and hostility from the Pathans who held baithaks in the BIT compound.

With the police and the press on his side, Dawood was no more an underdog. Riding on the crest of invincibility, Dawood thought of testing waters for himself. He knew that until he toppled Baashu Dada from power, Baashu had been known as a kingmaker. Whichever par ty he suppor ted won hands down and whomever he deser ted could never win. Maulana Bukhari’s case was a classic example of Baashu’s clout and power. And Dawood wanted to see if he could wield clout and power like Baashu did.Thus Dawood proposed the idea to Natiq of contesting the Lok Sabha elections.

Political aspirations should never be based on presumptions. True, he was a fantastic jour nalist and a known name in the circles, and this could make him a favourite for the common man. Natiq, however, made the mistake of assuming these under the delusion that he could win the election. He filed his nominations as an independent candidate for the sixth Lok Sabha elections in 1977.

Dawood thought that through his boys he would give Natiq the necessary suppor t and ensure that he managed to win. This was a useful litmus test for the wannabe don.

Inevitably, however, Natiq lost the elections badly and could manage only 800 votes. Rajada Ratansingh Gokuldas of Bhartiya Lok Dall won comfortably.

Unfazed with Natiq’s loss, Dawood became cer tain he was still far from his desired peak of power. He now had to work harder to get there sooner. Natiq was a first timer; it was but natural that he might not perfor m so well, he convinced his candidate. The next time, the victory would be his, an explanation Natiq readily bought.But Natiq’s cup of woes had begun to brim. For the Pathans had decided he was a par ty pooper, following his actions after their gruesome killing of a man and the rape of his newlywed wife at Chawla Guest House, Ibrahim Rahimtullah Road.

It so happened that the Pathans used to hide their smuggled goods in the vicinity of the guesthouse. Ayub Lala and Saeed spotted the couple who were staying at the guesthouse on one of their errands. One night, they barged into their room and gangraped the woman for no other reason but sheer lust, and then killed her husband to leave no witnesses.

People were not willing to disclose the names of the killers, but Natiq went ahead and repor ted the whole story, disclosing everything. The cops managed to crack the case and arrested Ayub Lala and Batla as well as their aides, including Saeed.

After spending months in jail, the criminals got bail and retur ned to their base at Carrom Club in the BIT compound. They were plotting to eliminate Natiq but somehow were not able to summon enough audacity to kill him. After all, they had just got bail.

Nonetheless, they began making threats to Natiq. They tried to ransack his small editorial office. Natiq lodged a complaint at the Dongri Police Station, saying that the Carrom Club had become a den for several anti-social activities and the cops subsequently raided the club and shut it down—a major victory for Natiq and the last straw for the Pathans.

On the fateful night of 17 August 1977 around 3:30 am, after Natiq had gone to sleep, he was woken by a persistent knocking at his door. A sleepy Natiq opened the door and found Saeed standing on the door.

‘Bhai has called you,’ Saeed said. ‘Bhai’ here referred to Amirzada.

‘What the hell! Have you seen the time? I cannot come now. I will meet him tomorrow,’ Natiq replied.

 

‘What the hell! Have you seen the time? I cannot come now. I will meet him tomorrow,’ Natiq replied.

 

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