Behind Bars in Byculla

by Jigna Vora

  One day, Salma returned to the barracks after a court visit, heartbroken. She walked around the barracks like a hurt animal, hurling every abuse she knew in Bengali. I couldn’t understand much of it, but no one had ever seen her so disturbed. I didn’t even have the courage to console her because Jaya was keeping a constant watch on my activities, either personally or through her informers. Finally, Paromita walked up to Salma, and spoke to her in Bengali. They had an animated conversation, and I heard Jaya’s name pop up a few times. At that time, Jaya was visiting court because her trials had a daily hearing, so perhaps Salma was less discreet than she would have normally been.

  Later, Paromita told me what had transpired. The Dindoshi court was hearing Salma’s case, and Jaya had promised to arrange the best lawyer for her. The lawyer in question was none other than the famous Mahesh Patil, who was the go-to person for any case in Dindoshi. During one of her court visits, Salma ran into Mahesh Patil and asked him why he wasn’t showing up for her case. The seasoned lawyer blew the lid off Jaya’s lies. He said he had never been paid to argue for Salma’s case and had no reason to show up.

  ‘Jaya has fucked up Salma’s case,’ Paromita said.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I asked.

  ‘Wait and watch,’ she said. ‘Keep reading your Hanuman Chalisa.’

  Paromita was a shrewd woman. Though she sympathized with Salma, a conflict with Jaya would make her survival, or even anyone else’s survival, impossible. Her fears proved right because no sooner had Jaya arrived back in her fiefdom, one of her many spies updated her on what had occurred in her absence. Later that night, Salma Bibi applied cold cream all over her body like she did each night, and went to sleep while keeping a fair distance from everyone because even the slightest of unwarranted touches irritated her no end.

  In the middle of the night, the entire barrack woke up to loud abuses. Salma Bibi and Simran, the mobile thief, were pulling each other’s hair.

  ‘Why did you kick me?’ Salma screamed.

  ‘I never touched you, whore!’ Simran shouted.

  Salma Bibi spat on the floor. ‘One lauda will never suffice a cocksucker like you!’

  They threw wild punches and dragged each other around. The entire barrack watched in stunned silence, and no one had the guts to intervene. Paromita was sure Simran had been egged on by Jaya. The fight got so serious that the jail authorities had to open the locks of the barrack at 2 a.m. Opening the barrack while the bandi was in force was serious. It had never happened in front of me. When they were finally separated, Salma and Simran had clumps of each other’s hair in their hands. Immediately, the authorities shifted Salma to a different circle. I didn’t get a chance to interact with Salma a lot after that. But I met her once during a visit to Dr Khan.

  ‘Salma Bibi, how is your superintendent?’ I asked her in jest.

  ‘He is useless,’ she said. ‘His lauda can’t even stand up.’

  We all laughed at that.

  Salma Bibi had not forgiven Jaya Chheda and wanted her to rot in hell. Her last piece of advice to me was to stay away from Jaya’s games, and pray to God for my release.

  Much later, I heard about Salma Bibi’s death due to tuberculosis. I always remember Salma Bibi as the woman who sat in the veranda of Byculla Jail, and dreamt of living a free life in Kolkata. She always claimed the police had framed her and her son. Sometimes, she was worried about the kholi that had apparently led to her husband’s death. She was sure the neighbours would have usurped it by now. Unfortunately, death came to her long before the freedom she longed for. Salma Bibi’s son was convicted in the murder case and sentenced to a life term.

  13

  COLLATERAL DAMAGE

  With every passing day, I became more attentive and observant in jail. Some inmates intrigued me, while some made me restless. Suman Soni had the latter effect on me. She had spent about seven months in jail. The forty-something woman was thin to the point of emaciation. She always wore a sari, and her hair would be tied in a neat plait. Her frail arms would show in her loose-sleeved blouses, which she had borrowed from others. Other inmates constantly bullied her, and she did not have the physical or mental strength to stand up for herself. She would speak to no one. Sometimes, I would see her sitting in a corner, talking to herself and crying.

  None of Suman’s family members ever came to meet her. A long time ago, Suman had also adopted a son, who had turned nineteen while she was in jail, but even he never bothered to check on his foster-mother. Her son’s story would force me to confront my own horrid thoughts. What if my son did the same to me? What if he decided to never see me again?

  The powerful inmates did minimal cleaning work for the weekly visits of the superintendent. But Usha Maa, the warden, would make Suman scrub the entire barrack, and the poor soul would do it without a murmur of protest. The other inmates would look at her and laugh, as she went about bearing their share of the workload.

  I managed to speak to Suman once. The conversation lasted barely thirty minutes. She spoke in chaste Hindi, in an accent that made me guess she was from Uttar Pradesh. Suman had been arrested for attempting to murder her mother-in-law. Married at a young age of twelve, Suman’s life was made hell because she could not bear any children. Her mother-in-law tortured her endlessly. Once, she inserted forceps into Suman’s vagina and turned them so that her womb could be destroyed forever. I was aghast at the amount of cruelty a woman could unleash on another. As Suman shivered while recalling the tale, I could not stop my tears.

  Suman also owned a flat in Jogeshwari area. After her husband died, her mother-in-law insisted that she leave the house and walk away. Her mental and physical torture continued, now for the flat that her mother-in-law wanted. One day, during an argument, Suman snapped. She picked up a wooden plank and hit her mother-in-law on the head. The monstrous lady collapsed on the floor in a pool of blood, but survived, and Suman landed in jail.

  The Byculla Jail campus had police quarters right behind our barracks. Every Saturday, around 2 a.m., Suman would start shouting through the small windows that were located at the top of the barrack walls.

  ‘Superintendent sahab!’ she would scream. ‘You are sleeping so peacefully with your wife. Mera toh kuch karo!’

  It was her weekly ritual that humoured some inmates but irritated a few others. Salma Bibi would often ask Suman if she wanted the superintendent to ‘douse the fire that was burning inside her body’.

  I learnt that Suman had no lawyer, and thus no court visits were scheduled for her. She had no clue what a charge sheet meant, and if there was one in her case. I got the address of her Jogeshwari house and requested the NGOs representative visiting the jail to contact someone from her family. But the NGOs took no interest in her case. I pleaded with them to get her a lawyer, but they ignored that request too.

  Finally, I spoke to Paromita and we briefly discussed the possibility of getting Suman released. Having studied law, I knew that in Suman’s case, bail was possible. Paromita was curious about my interest in helping Suman, and other inmates too began talking about my efforts.

  One morning, at around 10 a.m., I found about half a dozen inmates circling Suman, clapping and singing loudly. I walked over to find Suman dressed in a gaudy sari. She had dark red lipstick spread on her lips, a thick outline of kohl around her eyes and dangling earrings.

  The inmates forced her to dance and Suman obeyed their orders. More inmates gathered around Suman soon. I shivered as I watched the entire barrack surround her, dancing like a nomadic tribe. Even the Africans danced while Suman remained at the centre. They made it look like Suman was behaving like a eunuch.

  Later that day, the jail authorities arrived and took custody of Suman. I wondered why they had taken her away, considering such bullying was not uncommon in the jail. But later on, I learnt that Suman had been transferred to a hospital for mentally disturbed people in Thane. The murmurs began soon after that Jaya Chheda had had a hand in it all and got Suman transferred. My att
empts to get Suman bail had not gone down well with Jaya. Before I could do anything, Jaya had played her cards.

  *

  In April 2012, I read a newspaper report that Mumbai Police had arrested a struggling actress named Simran Sood in relation to the murder of Delhi businessman Arun Tikku. The article and subsequent media coverage created quite a buzz in Byculla Jail. All the inmates were excited about an actress joining their ranks. Vijay Palande was also arrested. Arun Kumar Tikku, sixty-two, had been murdered in his three-bedroom flat in Mumbai by Palande’s associates. There was news that Simran would also be charged.

  Two weeks later, Simran Sood arrived in Byculla Jail in the evening. She was skinny, tall and fair. She was taken to Barrack No. 2. Inmates from Barrack No. 2 lined up to get a good look at the ‘actress’. But to the best of my knowledge, Simran had only been a struggler who had perhaps appeared in a few item songs. Next morning, Simran was shifted to Barrack No. 5. In the afternoon, she came up to speak to me when I was reciting my prayers under the tree, which was my usual place for meditation.

  ‘Can you remove my hair extensions?’ Simran asked.

  I shook my head. I had never used such accessories and had no clue how to take one off. Simran hadn’t been able to remove the extension for the past fifteen days, and now it was pricking her scalp. I suggested that she check with Melody Mumma, since the Africans in jail had short hair and would probably know how to deal with an extension. When Simran visited Melody Mumma, she was finally able to get the extension off her head. She couldn’t stop thanking me for the help.

  Simran received a lot of attention in jail due to the high-profile nature of her case. She also started spending a lot of time with me. Jaya Chheda could not accept this, and tried her best to cause a rift between us.

  Simran was unable to get used to the jail food. Since I had received permission through a court order to be sent home-cooked food, I suggested to Simran that she could try getting one too. Her lawyer tried many times, but the court never allowed Simran the requisite permission.

  Simran confided to me that she had been dating a top stockbroker from Mumbai before her arrest. Her lavish lifestyle involved partying and clubbing every single night. She would try designer clothes for hours before finalizing her look each evening, a stark contrast to her life now, when she had only two pairs of clothes. She fondly remembered the new year bash that her stockbroker boyfriend had thrown on a yacht in Goa.

  ‘He booked the entire yacht for me,’ she said.

  ‘Did he ever come to meet you when you were in police custody?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure he will visit me here.’

  I merely laughed from my own experience and asked her not to expect too much from friends.

  ‘He is a Gujarati,’ she said. Then she told me his name, and asked if there was any chance I might be related to him.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ she replied. ‘Because his mother is a bitch. A control freak!’

  I laughed aloud at that. Simran also mentioned that she used to go shopping to Bangkok every weekend with a coterie of socialites. None of them had bothered to check on her after her arrest. She said she used to also meet Santosh Shetty, Chhota Rajan’s associate, in Bangkok. Shetty was extradited to India in 2011. I would often find him sitting in the same vehicles during our court visits.

  According to the police, Vijay Palande and Simran were husband and wife, but Simran always insisted that Vijay was like a brother to her. Other inmates joked about this.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Usha Maa quipped. ‘During the day he is your brother, and at night he is your lover!’

  I offered some of my kurtas to Simran since she had so few clothes, and we were pretty much the same height. She politely refused because her father was due to visit her from Delhi, where her family lived. While working in Bollywood, Simran had lived alone in Mumbai in a posh locality. Her accent had the forced delicateness of a film star. She would lament about her situation, but I never saw her crying in jail.

  Simran was assigned to Barrack No. 5, and her space was next to Melody Mumma. She started reading the Bible, fasting and attending some of the rituals of Muslim inmates on Fridays, all in the hope that there would be some divine intervention that would ensure her release. She also got addicted to the packets of gutkha that Fatima would smuggle inside. To me, Simran often spoke about designer brands of handbags, and I could never even pronounce their names correctly.

  Simran had never used an Indian toilet in her life before, but now she was sharing a toilet with forty other women. Earlier, she drank nothing but mineral water, but now she had to drink from dirty taps. Her parties would begin at 12.30 a.m. and end at 5.30 a.m. But in Byculla Jail, she had to wake up at 5.30 a.m. and attend a headcount. The way she spoke about her life, Simran had lived in a way that most of us cannot even dream of.

  Simran often joked that once we were released, we would be the perfect candidates for Bigg Boss. And she had a plan to go to Goa too. I had never visited Goa before, so I would enthusiastically agree with her. ‘We’ll have so much fun, it will be once in a lifetime’, she would say.

  Simran missed her stockbroker boyfriend a lot. During each court visit, she was hopeful that he would turn up to meet her, but each time she would return in the evening with a dejected look on her face. I could relate to this situation completely since so many of the people I had considered my trusted friends had also forsaken me. But Simran still hoped that her lover would turn up to see her the next time. I did not have the heart to burst her bubble of hope. Her brother and father, and her lawyer would often visit her though.

  In May, Jaya Chheda started guiding Simran and told her she was ready to help her if Simran stopped talking to me. However, Simran would wait for Jaya Chheda to leave for her court date and rush to my barrack and chat with me. Simran would often go through the book that was delivered to Jaya every day. Jaya would also get clothes from Westside for her. I never had the courage to tell Simran that Jaya used most inmates like dolls, and she would break her favourite toys as soon as she got bored of them. In Simran’s case, that happened rather soon. Late one night, Jaya instigated a fight between an African inmate and Simran. The African inmate slapped Simran hard and her cheeks turned red. The entire jail was stunned. To Simran’s credit, not even such a hard slap could make her cry. The lady constables arrived and shifted Simran to Circle 2. After that, I would only meet Simran during doctor visits. She confessed that she missed talking to me. I advised her to keep to herself and not get over-friendly with anyone.

  Simran secured bail a few months after me. She made a great effort to keep in touch. Once, I took my son to the KFC at Linking Road, Bandra, and he was enjoying his food when someone called my name aloud. I turned around and saw Simran running towards me. She hugged me tightly. ‘You supported me during the worst phase of my life,’ she said, and started weeping. That was the only time I saw her cry.

  14

  THE KILLING OF J. DEY

  On the rainy afternoon of 11 June 2011, one piece of news spread among the city’s journalists. A journalist had been shot in broad daylight. The telephone line at the police control room rang non-stop. Other journalists wanted to know if it was true or just fake news doing the rounds.

  Soon, reports confirmed that fifty-six-year-old Jyotirmoy Dey had been shot near his residence in Hiranandani Gardens, Powai. Later, another update confirmed that J. Dey, as he was famously known, was dead.

  J. Dey was the investigations editor at Mid-Day. At around 2.30 p.m. on the fateful day, he was returning home after meeting his mother Bina at her Amrut Nagar house in Ghatkopar. Minutes before reaching home, Dey had called his wife to inform her that he would reach in the next 10–15 minutes. By 2.45 p.m., when Dey reached the main road leading to Hiranandani Gardens, four men on two bikes opened fire at him. J. Dey, who was on a motorcycle too, collapsed instantly. He was first rushed to a nearby hospital, which was ill-equipped to treat such severe injuries. He had
five gunshot entry wounds and four exit wounds on his body. By the time he was taken to the Hiranandani Hospital, he had succumbed to them.

  J. Dey’s murder sent shock waves in the journalist fraternity across the country. The six-foot-three imposing man had been one of the top crime reporters. Many juniors looked up to him. Even before he was laid to rest, theories about the possible motive behind his killing began to surface.

  Some said that it was the powerful oil mafia that he had irked with his exposés. Some cited the story about red sandalwood smuggling that he was working on as a probable reason. J. Dey’s probe about a senior cop’s close link with Dawood Ibrahim was another theory that floated around, while some believed that perhaps he had rubbed the underworld the wrong way through his reports.

  *

  With the onset of the monsoon that year, I had finally found the time to visit Sikkim with my family, a trip that we had planned for months. The pristine, lush valleys were a soothing relief. We were in the picturesque town of Pelling on the afternoon of 11 June 2011, when my Blackberry phone began beeping continuously. The screen flashed Hussain Zaidi’s name, my editor at the Asian Age.

  ‘What, sir?’ I said, in jest. ‘Can’t I enjoy a vacation without thinking about work?’

  ‘J. Dey has been shot dead,’ he replied bluntly. ‘Confirm it and file a story. Get all the details.’

  The news made me gasp. I gazed at my phone wondering how a journalist could be shot dead in a city like Mumbai. The first person I thought of contacting was Himanshu Roy, who was joint commissioner of police (crime) back then. I promptly dialled Roy’s number. The siren of a police jeep wailed in the background, as Roy spoke in a voice laced with urgency. He was on his way to Powai, where the murder had taken place. With the confirmation from the top cop, I called Prasad Patil, the then bureau chief at Asian Age. He put another reporter to cover the spot story while I tapped into my sources to get deeper. As soon as I reached my room at the lodge we were staying in, I switched on the television. J. Dey’s murder was ‘Breaking News’ on all the channels. I stopped at NDTV and got back to making calls.