Behind Bars in Byculla

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Behind Bars in Byculla Page 10

by Jigna Vora


  To me, J. Dey was a professional acquaintance. He was an extremely private person who spoke only when he wanted to. My interactions with him were limited to a distant smile, only if we happened to glance at each other at press conferences. My mind kept drifting back to the thought that J. Dey’s murder was a stark reminder of the perils of our profession. At around 8.30 p.m., I dictated my inputs to a junior reporter from office. The cellular network was weak in the mountains. But the story was filed.

  The next morning, we stepped out early as the sun peeked through the beautiful hillocks. A light drizzle fell on the roof of our Toyota Innova as we drove along the narrow roads to see all the sights. A beautiful mist limited our visibility. Even as I looked at the mesmerizing landscape around, my mind pondered over J. Dey’s murder. My family, all eight of them, stopped by to enjoy momos for brunch. But I had no appetite.

  My phone buzzed continuously, even while we were in the red corridors of a Buddhist monastery. There were several theories that circulated. The strongest one was that he bore the brunt for reporting aggressively on the oil mafia. But there were no concrete leads and it was all mere speculation. I continued to stay in touch with my colleagues and sources over the next few days.

  On 18 June, I returned to Mumbai. I wasted no time and went to Roy’s office at Crawford Market. The cops, I learnt, were still clueless. They had absolutely no leads. A large group of journalists had protested by organizing a candle march for their fallen colleague. A delegation also met Home Minister R.R. Patil, demanding a CBI probe in the case. Roy was under tremendous pressure to crack it.

  ‘Did he have any personal animosities?’ I asked Roy. ‘Disputes?’

  ‘Not that we’re aware of,’ he said.

  ‘Any suspects at this time?’

  ‘We’re exploring all angles.’

  ‘Any leads from the CCTV footage?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Perhaps the CCTV footage can reveal if the shooters escaped towards Andheri or Ghatkopar?’

  He held his chin in his hands and contained the faint smile between his thick fingers. ‘Why should I reveal the course of my investigation?’ I understood his need for secrecy and wished him good luck on the case.

  Around that time, I also filed a story about J. Dey’s unscheduled trip to London in 2011, allegedly to meet Iqbal Memon alias Iqbal Mirchi, a close associate of fugitive gangster Dawood Ibrahim. Mumbai Police also began investigating this trip.

  The media had grown restless. We needed some concrete answers on the murder. On 27 June, exactly sixteen days after J. Dey was murdered in cold blood, Mumbai Police announced a press conference. All of us headed to the Police Press Club at Azad Maidan. I sat in the back row, sipping a cup of tea, as Arup Patnaik, the city’s police commissioner, announced that they had an important breakthrough. Standing by the commissioner’s side was Roy, his biceps bulging in the chequered, half-sleeved shirt he wore.

  ‘We have arrested seven people. Underworld Don Chhota Rajan is behind the killing,’ the cop announced.3

  ‘The murder was planned by Rohit Thangapani, alias Satish Kalia, at the behest of Chhota Rajan. Kalia is a known shooter of Rajan’s gang and has worked for him earlier too. While three persons were arrested from Mumbai, three were arrested from Rameshwaram in Tamil Nadu, and one from Solapur.’

  The revolver, bullets and the mobile phones used in the murder had been recovered. The cops suspected that the trigger was the two articles written by J. Dey about Chhota Rajan’s diminishing influence in the underworld. But the police theory had too many loose ends. Nevertheless, the media congratulated the cops, including Senior Inspector Ramesh Mahale, who was known for his immaculate paperwork.

  On 1 July 2011, in an explosive interview to NDTV, Chhota Rajan claimed that J. Dey had been colluding with rival gangster Dawood Ibrahim. On his visit to London, Dey had invited Chhota Rajan for an interview, but the don sensed danger and stayed away. Rajan’s suspicion was further strengthened when Dey invited him for an interview in the Philippines. J. Dey had thus turned traitor in the books of Chhota Rajan, a renegade threat that had to be eliminated. ‘Reporters should not cross their limits,’ Chhota Rajan said, concluding the interview.

  Vinod Asrani, a builder based in Chembur with links to Chhota Rajan, was also arrested by the Crime Branch. He was known to drink with Dey in the bars of central Mumbai. Around the first week of June, he had allegedly helped the sharpshooters identify J. Dey at a bar named ‘Uma Palace’ in Mulund, the cops claimed. In each arrest, Mumbai Police pressed charges under the stringent MCOCA against all the accused.

  15

  DOG EAT DOG

  The front-page story in a city tabloid announced that there had been a development in the J. Dey murder case. The story stated that the police were closely investigating the role of a female reporter in the murder, but did not name the suspect or the policemen. Based on information provided by highly placed sources, the story managed to create ripples and perhaps also created anticipation that there would be a fresh arrest.

  Another story in a national daily, buried somewhere in the middle pages, made a similar claim. A female reporter, under the police scanner, had allegedly provided the registration number of J. Dey’s bike, his residential address and his office address to Chhota Rajan, the story stated.

  I’d been living in a rented apartment in Worli since September 2010, because it saved a lot of time travelling to the nearby Asian Age office. I was a single parent, and my job paid for my son’s education, and for the various bills that life never stops throwing at you. In an area where real estate costs a bomb, I paid a modest rent of Rs 12,000 per month because the flat was only a small room redeveloped by the Slum Rehabilitation Authority (SRA).

  I closely followed every development in the murder. I wondered who this female reporter was. I turned the page over, not realizing that the sheet of paper in my hands was a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode.

  Over the coming days, I noticed that my co-workers at Asian Age would pause in the middle of animated conversations if I happened to be passing. Calls to my colleagues in other media houses went unanswered and unreturned. It was sometime towards the end of August 2011 that Zaidi sir called me to his cabin.

  ‘Sit,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a good job with the J. Dey case.’

  I nodded.

  ‘The police suspect the involvement of a female reporter,’ he said. ‘Any idea who that might be?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Jigna,’ he said, ‘it could be a rumour, but the needle of suspicion is pointing at you.’

  I sank into the chair, shocked. I assured him I had no role to play, which seemed to put him at ease. Maybe these were mere rumours after all, and they’d die their own death. I had nothing to fear because my conscience was clear. But the rumours only got stronger. And wherever I went, I had a constant paranoia of being followed. I’d turn around and find no one, but I could never shake off that fear. The wildest theory on the grapevine alleged that I’d been a party to the murder because of an affair gone wrong with J. Dey. In reality, I didn’t even recall ever speaking to him.

  At the same time, Leo, my pug whom I loved to death, was growing increasingly distant. We usually shared a close bond, but at that time, he just didn’t want to be anywhere near me. My mom later reasoned that perhaps Leo had an intuition that I was going away from home, and this was his way of preparing for it.

  The rumour mills were working overtime. My name cropped up more often in the media fraternity, though the identity of the female reporter was never revealed in the newspapers. I discussed the situation with Hussain Zaidi again, and we agreed it would be best to meet Himanshu Roy and clear the air. On 9 September 2011, with rain lashing down from the dark Mumbai sky, I met Zaidi sir at the Palladium Mall in Lower Parel, where he was accepting delivery of his new car. His wife, a devout Hindu, performed an aarti of the car, and with rain pounding heavily against the windscreen, we reached Crawford Market at 8 p.m. While Zaid
i sir attended the meeting with Himanshu Roy, I prayed at the nearby Hanuman temple, pleading with the god of strength to help me tide through this crisis.

  I noticed the sombre look on Zaidi’s face when he returned. His knuckles whitened as he clutched the steering of his brand-new car tightly.

  ‘Himanshu confirmed they are investigating you,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ I said as I burst into tears. ‘I haven’t done anything!’

  ‘He says a lot of people, some in his circles, and some in ours, will be happy to see you behind bars.’

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘These are murky waters, Jigna. Nothing is clear. But he assured me that he knows you aren’t involved. And he’ll make sure justice prevails in the end.’

  My breathing eased. ‘I am standing between my men and Jigna’s arrest,’ Roy had assured Zaidi sir. I wish he had recorded that conversation.

  A media association suggested that they’d present my case before the home minister, but I did not proceed because I had no guilt to bear. Like Zaidi sir, I believed in Himanshu Roy’s words. Looking back, that was the biggest mistake of my life.

  *

  My family planned another vacation to Nathdwara, Rajasthan, on 25 November, to visit the holy shrine of Srinathji. The rental lease of the SRA flat in Worli has since ended, and I had returned to Ghatkopar to stay with my grandparents and mother. On 31 October, I woke up to my BlackBerry phone vibrating. Megha Prasad, a friend and a fellow journalist, had sent me numerous messages. Her panic-stricken words asked me to check the Mumbai Mirror. I picked up the paper in front of my door with shaking hands. The front-page report claimed that the police had recovered call recordings in which Chhota Rajan had admitted to unidentified people that the lady reporter had instigated the murder of J. Dey. The police also claimed to be in possession of a threatening text message sent by the female reporter to J. Dey. I was shaken as I finished reading the article. It stated that over the next few days, the Crime Branch was going to call in the reporter for questioning.

  In the first week of November, I called Senior Inspector Ramesh Mahale of the Mumbai Crime Branch. He was a deeply religious person.

  ‘God will help you if you’re innocent,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t done anything, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then come to the Unit One office if we call you. Record your statement.’

  I agreed and hung up. My son was home for his Diwali vacation, but a severe bout of jaundice had confined him to bed. I sat with him and held out the many medicines he’d been prescribed.

  ‘Things aren’t right,’ I told him.

  ‘Why, Ma?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll be fine. Concentrate on your studies.’

  ‘Okay, Ma.’

  ‘Remember,’ I said, ‘whatever happens, I will always be by your side.’

  He moved closer and put his arms around me.

  ‘I’ll meet you on 9 December in Panchgani,’ I said.

  He looked up. ‘Promise?’

  I kissed his forehead, and a faint smile spread across his sallow face. Later, I confided about the recent developments to my uncle and aunt, who lived next door. They were horrified, but believed in my innocence, and promised to pray for my safety.

  On 12 November, Assistant Police Inspector (API) Vilas Datir from the Crime Branch called my number. It was the call I’d been dreading.

  ‘Mahale sir must have spoken to you, madam,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘When should I come?’

  ‘By noon,’ he said. ‘We’ll be waiting.’

  I had been to the Unit One office at Crawford Market umpteen times over the past five years, especially when I had covered the 26/11 terrorist attacks on Mumbai in 2008. Mahale had played a pivotal role in investigating that attack.

  I parked my Hyundai i10. Never had I imagined that I would walk into these premises as a suspect.

  Inside Mahale’s office, I was asked to sit on a plastic chair. Photos of Lord Ganesha lined the walls. Arun Chauhan, a senior inspector from the Property Cell, took a seat opposite me. Vilas Datir, assistant police inspector, sat down on another table in the same room. He was a tall, imposing man and tapped his heavy fingers on a laptop throughout the interaction.

  Chauhan began with the routine questions, asking for details such as my age, and address, which I was sure he already knew. He was only easing me into the questioning, preparing me for what lay ahead.

  ‘Do you know J. Dey’s wife?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Where did he live?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about your professional rivalry with him?’

  ‘He was far too senior for such a rivalry to exist.’

  Chauhan leaned forward. ‘What kind of equation do you share with Chhota Rajan?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘But,’ he said and showed me an international number written on a piece of paper, ‘you’ve been in regular touch with this number in the last six months, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘About twenty times in the last six months. That isn’t a lot, really.’

  ‘Whom does this number belong to?’

  ‘A friend I met on a social network.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘Through a common friend. He has no connection to the underworld. His profile can be verified.’

  The questioning lasted for three hours, and finally, they let me go. I had kept my bosses at Asian Age informed of my trip to Unit One. When I reached the office in the evening, the edit meeting was in progress. Grim faces gathered around me. I clarified that the police were suspicious about a few international calls and that I’d recorded my statement about those. A few colleagues hugged me, and I heaved a huge sigh of relief, thinking that the worst was behind me.

  On 14 November 2011, my son returned to his boarding school in Panchgani.

  The Crime Branch had not filed a charge sheet yet. Normally, the police are expected to file a charge sheet in court in three months. But under the provisions of MCOCA, they’d requested for an extension, which was granted by the court. The six-month deadline to file the charge sheet was soon approaching. Over the next few days, I also spoke to Himanshu Roy. The conversation put me at ease and strengthened my belief that my fear had been unfounded. On 22 November, I received a call from Binoo Nair, my colleague at the Asian Age.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Oh. Uh . . .’ He wanted to say something but could not bring himself to do it. ‘Okay, okay.’

  ‘Why, Binoo?’ I asked. ‘Anything wrong?’

  He spoke after an elaborate pause. ‘There were rumours at the Press Club that you’ve been arrested.’

  I tried to laugh, only to make him feel better. ‘Well, I’m talking to you.’

  I hung up soon after, but that call shook me up. And then, two days later, I received a text message from a senior IPS officer. Just two words: ‘Stay Strong.’

  On the morning of 25 November, I was making some last-minute arrangements for my trip to the Srinathji shrine in Rajasthan. Our train was scheduled to depart at 2.30 p.m. from Bandra Terminus. I was standing with my aunt in the balcony of her home, going over a list of things she wanted me to bring from Rajasthan. A grey Bolero jeep stopped in the narrow lane in front of the balcony. Three lady constables and two heavyset men in safari suits emerged from the vehicle. There was nothing dramatic about their entry, but the purpose behind their trained movements was evident. I rushed back to my flat, which was next door. My grandfather looked up from the newspaper.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he asked in chaste Gujarati.

  ‘The police are here.’

  ‘Police? Why?’

  My grandfather was a Gandhian who’d lived his entire life with two sets of clothes. His life had been an epitome of simplicity. Confusion loomed large on his face. Before I could explain any further, the cops appeared in the
corridor. The lady constable was dressed in plain clothes and wore a mangalsutra around her neck.

  ‘Jigna Vora?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s me,’ I said, still in my nightclothes.

  ‘Get dressed,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to come with us.’

  ‘Why?’ my grandfather asked.

  ‘Routine questioning,’ she said, her tone lowered in some measure. ‘She’ll be back by evening.’

  I knew she wasn’t speaking the truth, but I was thankful because it calmed down my grandfather. My mother was bathing, unaware of what was happening. My maid continued cooking in the kitchen, assuming some guests had come over. I walked to my bedroom, and the other lady constable followed. She stayed inside while I changed, and pointed her chin at a photo frame on the walls.

  ‘Who is this boy?’ she asked.

  ‘My son,’ I said.

  She smiled in some measure and waited until I pulled on a pink T-shirt and blue jeans. In a matter of minutes, even before I could bid goodbye to my mother, I was inside the Bolero jeep, sandwiched between the lady constables. On the way from Ghatkopar to Crawford Market, the lady constable asked me to switch off and hand over the Samsung phone I’d recently purchased. At 11.20 a.m., the constables shuffled me inside the Unit One office. API Vilas Datir spoke with a tinge of empathy in his voice.

  ‘Madam,’ he said. ‘You are under arrest for the murder of J. Dey.’

 

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