by Jigna Vora
The exterior of the office was not impressive, but the newsroom inside had a fresh decor and a cosy vibe, with yellow bulbs that gave it a non-corporate feel. Hussain Zaidi led me to Jayanthi’s cabin. I was surprised to see her. She had an uncanny resemblance to my ex-boss, Meenal.
‘She is Jigna Vora. She has covered some fantastic stories. But these days, I don’t see her name on the front pages.’
‘Hussain wants you on board,’ Jayanthi said. ‘What can you bring to the Asian Age?’
‘I am good at court reporting,’ I said. ‘And I also have some experience with crime reporting.’
‘Full-fledged operations begin in a month,’ Hussain said. ‘Can you join by then?’
The Asian Age had just been taken over by Deccan Chronicle, and they were hiring a whole new team, right from resident editor to reporter. Though the paper was in circulation, a lot was going to change.
I agreed. I negotiated for a decent salary package and a higher designation too. It was a smooth interview. I couldn’t be happier. I joined the Asian Age in May 2008. It was not exactly a pleasant first day as I walked in and was welcomed by a smiling Prasad Patil. He too had quit Mid-Day and joined the Asian Age as a political reporter. My apprehensions about him were allayed by Zaidi sir who told me not to worry as I would be reporting directly to him, not Patil. I started story-hunting very enthusiastically again. Among the first stories I broke was matka king Suresh Bhagat’s fear of threat to his life, which the police had ignored. My story, along with the picture of Jaya Chheda and Suhas Roge in a pool, sent ripples in the fraternity.
Abu Salem was still making news in 2008. I had some information about the love letters that actress Monica Bedi had written to him while both of them were in jail. I knew it would make for a great story, and pursued the lead diligently. Eventually, I found a way to the source who was in possession of those letters. I finally met him while he was shopping for the body-hugging T-shirts that Salem wore to court hearings. After much chasing, I obtained the letters. No one else in the media had a whiff of this. I was excited. A great story always gave me a rush.
The letters were romantic, sexual and desperate. Some even had explicit drawings made by Monica. She sounded like a lover anxiously longing for her partner. But to print the story, Hussain Zaidi asked me to get a quote from Monica Bedi herself.
Monica had already been released from Hyderabad jail. She was going to appear in the second season of the popular reality show Bigg Boss, and was seeking interactions with the media through her public relations (PR) team. I got in touch with her PR agency to arrange an interview, but I hid my real objective, which was to get her quote on her love letters to Salem. As arranged, I waited for Monica outside a mall in Thane. She arrived in a car, and I sat in between her and another woman, whom Monica never introduced to me. A bouncer was sitting on the front seat, next to the driver. The car began to move towards Andheri from Ghodbunder Road. After a few lines about her Bollywood comeback, I asked Monica if she had written any love letters to Salem from jail. Instantly, the colour drained from her decked-up face. She was stunned.
‘I have those letters,’ I said. ‘I need a quote from you for the story.’
She insisted that I should not publish her letters. I told her it wasn’t my decision but my editor’s. She asked her driver to stop, and the car screeched to a halt.
‘Get out of my car,’ she said.
I exited without being told again and took a taxi to the office. Eventually, the story was printed. The story was sensational and made it to the front page of the Asian Age. It created quite a storm. The TV media wanted a copy of the letters to follow up. Aariz Chandra, a TV reporter, requested a copy from me. I consulted Hussain Zaidi and he advised me against sharing the letters with anyone. He was working on a book on Abu Salem, and the letters would provide meaty details for it. At times, I have wondered if my professional equation with Aariz took a hit because of this. He stopped talking to me after that day.
Years later, sitting in Byculla Jail, I realized that Salem himself wanted those letters to come out in the media. This was his revenge against Monica for ditching him. A journalist may think he or she is breaking a story, but the journalist is seldom aware of the hidden agenda behind it. Journalists are often used by cops, politicians, gangsters and film stars to propagate their agenda.
*
In 2008, I covered the Ahmedabad blasts for the Asian Age. Rakesh Maria arrested a bunch of Indian Mujahideen operatives after an email claiming responsibility for the blast was traced to Navi Mumbai. From my sources in Ahmedabad, I obtained a photograph of Mansoor Asghar Peerbhoy, who was an accused in the case. And then, from Mumbai, I managed to get a copy of his signature. The signature was sent for handwriting analysis to an expert, without revealing the identity of the person in question. The report confirmed that the handwriting belonged to a terrorist. Once the story was printed, it spread like wildfire and the entire media latched on to it. It was another feather in my cap.
After the 26/11 terror attacks, in December 2008, Hussain Zaidi got an offer to work as a consultant on a documentary on the 26/11 attacks with Channel Four. I was helping him with the research and interviews. For this documentary, we were chasing some video footage of terrorist Ajmal Kasab’s interrogation by the police. My source called me to Andheri, late one night. I took along a friend, Murtuza Dewan, and drove with him at the late hour. The source seemed to have risked a lot to get me the CD.
‘Call for help if I don’t return in fifteen minutes,’ I told Murtuza.
I walked into an office where I met my source and two unknown men. As soon as I got the CD, I rushed back, and Murtuza drove us back. We managed to reach the Asian Age office safely. I was overwhelmed by what I had managed to get. That footage of the terrorists is the only one that is out till date, and was sourced by me. Hussain Zaidi commended me for a good job. The video was used in the documentary as well. Till date, nobody knows who leaked the CD. The source who had passed on the CD to me was only a middleman.
In May 2010, Himanshu Roy took over as joint commissioner, law and order. I had met him earlier when he was additional commissioner, south region, at his office in Nagpada. The meeting was not for journalistic pursuits, but I had been egged on to meet him by many female colleagues who couldn’t stop blushing about his personality, muscular physique and sophisticated manner. I went to see him, using a lame excuse for a story, and handed my visiting card to his assistant. I was called into his cabin. The moment I entered his room he cast a glance at my biscuit-coloured skirt and white shirt. He immediately stood up and pulled out a chair for me with the flourish of a gentleman.
‘Can I get some tea for you?’ he asked in his smooth voice.
I politely declined and spoke to him briefly about an irrelevant case from Colaba. I walked out of his office thoroughly impressed. Then, giggling like a teenager, elated to meet such a polished man, I met Hussain Zaidi at office. Hussain Zaidi warned me to be careful about my appearance when I went for professional meetings, and not be too friendly. His words turned out to be prophetic later.
As I started reporting more on crime, the frequency of my meetings with Himanshu increased. I would often hear rumours about my affair with him, but I laughed them off. It did feel strange when junior police officers began requesting me to push for better postings with Himanshu. Male reporters from the fraternity played their part in spreading these rumours. They would be waiting for long hours outside Himanshu’s cabin for a quote, and I would be called in before them. They would be oblivious to the fact that I would take an appointment from Himanshu’s office days in advance and show up on time.
It did not help that Himanshu addressed me with quite a few adjectives in private conversations. He would often call me ‘sweetheart’, etc. I would always address him as ‘sir’. Truth be told, Himanshu never gave me even one big story in all that time. In fact, he always discouraged me from pursuing certain leads. On one rainy evening, I was sitting inside Himanshu’
s cabin for a quote on the deportation of gangster Santosh Shetty. He was sitting with his hands behind his head, in a blue chequered half-sleeved shirt. The white T-shirt he wore inside was visible at the seams. He looked directly into my eyes and flexed his biceps suggestively.
‘Sir!’ I said firmly. ‘Your muscles don’t excite me.’
His biceps stopped flexing, and I realized that I had perhaps crossed a line, but it was important that I made my stance clear to him. Though he had never made a direct pass at me, his demeanour indicated that it was leading towards it. I wanted to stop things before they went any further.
A few days later, in late December 2010, I received a tip-off about a well-known builder who was into shady land dealings, and his exchanges with Himanshu. Like a fool, I asked Himanshu if this was true, even though I wasn’t doing a story on it. Himanshu brushed off the allegation, but this kind of rash behaviour on my part ended up ruffling a lot of feathers with powerful people. Later, I confronted many senior police officials about this information. A certain hubris had taken over me. Perhaps, this played a part in my downfall.
*
In December 2010, once, I attended a press conference (PC) at the Crime Branch and sat in the last row. After the PC, I met Himanshu for a quote on an exclusive story. A man whom I had met from a matrimonial site happened to call at that time. Usually, I didn’t answer calls when meeting police officials, but I answered the phone that day to let him know that I would call him after my meeting with the JCP (Crime) came to an end.
‘Boyfriend?’ Himanshu asked as soon as I had hung up.
‘Hmmm.’
‘Strange that you would want to marry someone you met online,’ he said.
I was surprised. ‘So what?’ I said, defiantly.
His eyes became big and red. For a moment I was scared. How did he know that the man I was contemplating to marry was someone I had met online? Had he tapped my phone? I decided to be more careful in my interactions with Himanshu from then on.
On 8 June 2011, I visited Himanshu’s office for a quote on another story. I was scheduled to fly to Sikkim the next day. Himanshu mentioned how things were calm in the city. I casually joked that this was the proverbial lull before a storm. He laughed at that and wished me a safe journey. Three days later, J. Dey was shot dead.
12
JAIL’S MANDAKINI
One night in Byculla Jail, I woke up to the clanging of heavy anklets. A sight awaited my weary eyes. Fifty-year-old Salma Bibi was prancing around the barrack, clad in nothing but a thin, red dupatta that was draped around her torso, tied in a peculiar knot above her cleavage. Her saggy breasts drooped down to her paunch. With each heavy movement, her big hips swayed from one side to the other. The silvery anklets were shining around her dark legs.
Earlier in the day, she had passed me in the reception area, wearing a cream-coloured salwar-kameez and hurling the kind of abuses I hadn’t ever heard before. Hence, I maintained my silence as she went about her naked antics that night, running her hands through her shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair. None of the other inmates seemed perturbed. A lady police constable was standing guard outside the barrack. Salma Bibi walked up to the gates and held the iron bars.
‘Why is the court delaying my case?’ Salma asked the constable.
The constable looked at Salma and said nothing.
‘What are you staring at?’ Salma said. ‘I’ll blow your bloody choot off.’
The constable was visibly angry, but she maintained her calm and allowed the abuse to die down, preferring not to escalate the conflict because Salma Bibi’s gaalis could make one’s ears bleed. I knew that most of her frustration stemmed from the slow progress of her case.
Salma had landed up in Barrack No. 2 on account of the various ailments she was suffering from. Her vision was blurry and she was acutely diabetic. Her designated place was right opposite mine. Each inmate, except the powerful ones, had personal space only as wide as a tile. All of us would sleep around the boundaries of the barrack. No inmate was allowed to sleep in the middle. For dinner, Salma Bibi would sit with her back against the stone walls, wearing only that red dupatta, and extend her legs out, while the aluminium plate would rest on her lap. That sight would kill my appetite, or whatever remained of it.
I learnt more about Salma Bibi when we started talking. She had been in jail for the past one-and-a-half years. Before her arrest, she had lived with her son and second husband in the slums of Ganesh Nagar in Malad. The family stayed in a ground-plus-one kholi, which was a room in a hutment. Her husband was in his mid-sixties and worked as a tailor. It was alleged that Salma Bibi and her son had killed him for the property. On the night that her husband was found dead, Salma Bibi claimed that her son was not even home. She came down the ladder from the first floor to find him dead already. She raised an alarm and alerted the neighbours. The neighbours called the police, who found that the man had an injury on his head. In their statements to the police, the neighbours alleged that the family had been fighting a lot over the property. Now, the police had a motive for the murder. But they didn’t recover the weapon. ‘If I indeed killed my husband, where is the weapon I used?’ Salma Bibi would ask in her defence. She alleged that her husband had most likely fallen on the floor and died accidentally.
The police charged her with the destruction of evidence. Her son was also arrested and sent to Thane Jail. He was married and had a child. Salma claimed her son’s family stayed in their native village, but no one knew if that was the truth.
Salma Bibi was originally from Kolkata. After her first husband had died, nearly 25 years ago, she had moved to Mumbai with her son. But she still believed she was the queen of Bengal, and demanded fish curry for dinner every night. There were quite a few Bengali-speaking inmates in Barrack No. 2, and she got along well with some of them, especially Paromita, who often had love bites on her neck. The inmates suspected these were a result of her dalliances with one of the lady police constables.
Many people warned me against talking to Salma, because she was always ready for a fight. She was in the good books of Jaya Chheda and thus would often receive new clothes and jewellery to wear. Jaya would also arrange packets of biryani for Salma whenever she would visit J.J. Hospital for medical check-ups. Salma would dress up in her best attire for hospital visits, and sing praises of Jaya after she returned. ‘Jaya Maa arranged for the best fried fish I have ever tasted!’ she would say.
Salma took great pleasure in dressing up for the weekly visit of the male superintendent, whom she lovingly referred to as Daroga Babu. On Fridays, when the Daroga Babu would come for the weekly visit, she would drape her favourite white saree, and line her eyes with kajal. She would pin up her pallu, and put a red bindi on her forehead. Then, she would hook heavy earrings in her earlobes, and twirl around for a round of praise from the other inmates. Fatima, who had a habit of cracking jokes with sexual overtones, would remark that the superintendent would be floored by the magic of Salma Bibi. Salma would blush like a teenage girl on hearing that, and all the women would burst out laughing!
Each Friday, when the superintendent would arrive at 9.30 a.m., Salma would stand as close as she could get to him. The superintendent would ask the inmates if there was anything he could do for their betterment, and Salma would get in his face and point to her left eye, which would flicker continually due to her blurry vision.
‘Daroga Babu,’ she would say, ‘meri aankh ka toh kuch karo.’
The superintendent would move a step back. ‘Haan, haan. Karta hoon.’
She would move forward a step. ‘Kab karoge? Jaldi karo.’
All the women would chuckle, and the superintendent would exit hastily.
Salma Bibi also had a huge problem with the amount of money the Indian government had spent on the security of Ajmal Kasab, the only terrorist who was caught alive for his role in the 26/11 terror attack. ‘These madarchods spent four-and-a-half crore to keep that terrorist alive!’ she would say. ‘But no
body cares that I am going blind.’
She would often notice me poring over a newspaper from the far end of the barrack and guess which article I was reading. ‘How come you were able to see what I was reading?’ I would ask her.
‘Utna toh dikhta hai,’ she would reply.
Salma would often wake up in the middle of the night and hurl mindless abuses. Sometimes, she would sit alone in the veranda and talk to herself. Once, I sat next to her in a moment of solitude. After a while she turned to me and said, ‘I’ll go back to Bengal after my acquittal. I don’t like Mumbai any more.’
Salma Bibi had an undying belief that she would be set free in due course of time. Jaya Chheda had promised Salma that she would use all her influence to get her released. Salma clung to that belief as if her life depended on it.
‘I committed no crime,’ she would tell me. ‘Why should I be afraid of any court?’
For such small favours, Jaya used Salma like her personal servant in jail. I learnt that Salma’s son was also playing a similar role for Jaya’s son in Thane Jail. Jaya often used to give freebies to inmates. After Jaya came back from hospital in February, she gave Salma a pair of nighties to wear. After that, Salma gave up draping the thin dupatta over her naked body. I noticed that Jaya had built an army of personal assistants with her influence. Most of these were Africans and inmates accused of murder. Jaya had convinced some of those accused of murder that it was impossible for them to get bail, so that they could stay in jail and serve her.
Paddu, who was Paromita’s helper, once told me that she would never get bail.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Jaya Maa has said so,’ Paddu said.
I asked for Paddu’s charge sheet, and read it. I told her that she had been taken for a ride because bail was possible in her case. She didn’t even have a lawyer. Many of the accused do not have the money or resources to arrange lawyers to fight their cases. And the NGOs who work in Byculla Jail also prefer helping only those inmates who can pay them. I had seen an NGO representative asking an inmate for Rs 500 to deliver a message to her home. The ones who do not have money are neglected and left to their fate. I managed to arrange a lawyer, Raja Thakur, for Paddu.