by Jigna Vora
I had a background in law, and I saw no hope in such red herrings. The CP’s words were merely perfunctory, and the entire episode of my arrest was based on weak evidence, which I was determined to disprove in court. But I saw no possibility that the charges would be dropped.
There were two Bohra women from Bandra in the Azad Maidan lock-up with me for a few days. They had been arrested with regard to a different case. They had picked up two copies of a newspaper from a visit to the court and excitedly asked me to read it. The front page carried news of Dev Anand’s death. He was an actor I had admired a lot. And then there was a story about me. It said that seven mobile phones had been recovered from Jigna Vora by the police. The article also contained my photo in a yellow T-shirt.
There were other rumours that I was on Chhota Rajan’s payroll and had used a satellite phone to contact him. The Bohra women seemed to be in awe of my alleged criminal prowess.
‘You had a satellite phone?’ one of them asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘But you had seven mobile phones, yes?’
‘No. I had just one phone, which the police confiscated as soon as I was arrested.’
‘Why is the media writing all this, then?’
I shrugged. ‘Ask them.’
Then one of them looked closely at the photograph and commented that I had brown eyes. I had to disappoint them again by saying I had worn lenses when the photograph was clicked. There was nothing extraordinary about me. But the media had already worked hard to create a different impression.
17
CASTE FACTOR
Among the first few people I got talking to in Byculla Jail was Pooja Thakker. The fact that she was Gujarati created a strange affinity. A few exchanges in my mother tongue soothed me to some extent. Pooja was in her early thirties, fair and very attractive. She introduced herself as a professor of gynaecology from a medical college in Pune. She had already been granted bail and was about to be released in a few days. Before walking out of the jail, she asked if there was any message I wanted to convey to my family. I asked her to tell them that I was coping fine, and that they need not worry about me. She readily agreed to pass on the message, and I gave her my landline number and my lawyer’s number.
I was sad to see Pooja leave and lose the one other person around me who spoke Gujarati. But Paromita warned me that Pooja wasn’t as angelic as she had portrayed. Pooja had been arrested for posing as a fake CBI officer and conducting raids. She had allegedly also cheated her prospective in-laws of jewellery worth lakhs. Paromita’s warnings made me worry if I had done the right thing by giving her the contact details of my aged grandparents and my mother.
Paromita also told me that Jaya Chheda would often adoringly call Pooja her bahu rani (darling daughter-in-law) because of her good looks. She had apparently often expressed her desire to make Pooja her daughter-in-law. Though Pooja and Jaya were not in jail together at the time that I was there, they had met each other before Jaya went away.
The weeks leading up to my first court visit were filled with anxiety. I wanted to speak with my family. And I looked forward to stepping out of the jail and talking to my lawyer Jayesh about the legal strategy. While Girish Kulkarni was the senior counsel, Jayesh was my lawyer for day-to-day hearings. But the thought of facing the world again was too heavy on my mind and morale. What would people think of me now? Would they think I was a murderer? On the day of the court visit, I suffered from severe stomach cramps. It was like I was a child who didn’t want to go to school but was forced to. Everyone in the sessions court knew me and held me in high regard—the judges, the lawyers, the peons and even the liftman. How would I ever face them?
As I was an accused under the MCOCA, I was produced in court amidst tight security. The police retinue consisted of six policemen and policewomen in total, including armed guards. As we approached the court building, I saw my aged grandfather sitting on the stairs of the bridge on the fifth floor, which connected the two court buildings. His teary eyes were fixed on the floor. He did not even notice me approaching, but his face lit up when he finally looked up at me. I hugged him tightly and began crying like a baby. A staunch Gandhian, my grandfather was respected in the society for his charitable work. I was guilty of putting him through all this humiliation. But he never castigated me and had only words of comfort for me. In him, I found a pillar of strength. I asked him about my mother and grandmother and was happy to hear that they were fine. I thanked my grandfather for coming to court but pleaded with him not to attend any more hearings because the media had turned up in full force and the pressure of scrutiny would be too much for him to bear.
The hearing lasted barely two minutes, and my judicial custody was extended. On my request, the court allowed me a three-minute call home. The police party accompanied me to a PCO near a Xerox booth. My mother picked up, and she cried on hearing my voice. I told her not to worry about me, and had a brief word with my grandmother too. My pug, Leo, was barking in the background. My mother said that he was aware that they were speaking to me, and was thus getting excited. Leo would roam the house looking for me and yelp sadly when he couldn’t find me. I asked my mother to put the phone to his ear. I said a few familiar phrases to Leo. He barked loudly and my mother told me he began licking the receiver. Sadly, the three minutes passed in a jiffy and I had to hang up.
As I was leaving, I asked my grandfather if a lady called Pooja had called. He said she had, and conveyed that she would be happy to carry any message to me in jail, but for money. The conversation did not have a good feel to it. Luckily, my grandfather had discussed the issue with my lawyer, Jayesh, who advised him to tell Pooja that Jigna’s lawyer had barred all discussions. As the police car took me back to jail, I promised myself not to trust anyone so easily in Byculla Jail.
18
UNLIKELY SAVIOUR
In January 2009, the Maharashtra Anti-Terrorist Squad arrested IPS officer Saji Mohan in a drug trafficking case. He had been working with the Enforcement Directorate (ED) and Narcotics Control Bureau (NCB). The ATS had apprehended him in Mumbai trying to sell off the very narcotics he had confiscated. It was a big story, and I had visited the ATS office to cover the story. Police officer Pradeep Sawant of the ATS was interrogating Saji Mohan. I sat on a chair and watched the proceedings from a distance. Mohan was seated on the floor, and he was cooperating with his interrogators, readily answering the questions being asked. It was a fall for this IPS officer of the 1995 batch, who had also been conferred with a gallantry medal during his service. I had written several stories on Saji Mohan’s lifestyle. To cover up his hair loss, he would wear expensive wigs that allegedly cost around Rs 1.5 lakh each.
In April 2012, I was returning to Byculla Jail from a court visit when I saw considerable police deployment outside the main gate. The policemen were surrounding a bald man. Once I reached the barracks, I asked a constable about the extra security. She informed me that Saji Mohan was being shifted from Arthur Road Jail to Byculla Jail because there was a perceived threat to his life. I had failed to recognize that the policemen were guarding him. His appearance had changed in the years since I had seen him. My immediate thought was, How would I face him?, as I had written multiple reports about him while reporting on his drug haul case.
Female inmates were not allowed to interact with male inmates, and their areas were far away from each other. As Saji Mohan was well educated, the prison authorities had assigned him the task of helping the jail doctor, Dr Khan, with maintaining records. I ran into Saji Mohan during a routine visit to the doctor, and as much as I tried to avoid him by fidgeting around the plants, he came up and spoke to me. I thought he would hold a grudge against me for all the stories I had written about him. To my utter surprise, he was very kind and asked about my health. Saji believed I had not committed the crime, and that I should trust the judiciary. I began to weep.
A few weeks later, I met Saji Mohan at the doctor’s office again. He used to read the newspapers and
had kept a tab on my case.
‘Jigna,’ he said, ‘I read some reports about some transcripts in your charge sheet. Can you tell me about it?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There is a transcript of a conversation between Chhota Rajan and his accomplice, where he claims that I had played a part in instigating him for the murder.’
‘If the police obtained these transcripts through telephone surveillance, you must know that orders for such surveillance must be approved by a DIG-level officer or by the additional chief secretary, home. Else, they are illegal.’
I thanked him profusely for the tip and made a mental note to discuss this with Jayesh. I was touched that a policeman whose lifestyle I had left open for everyone to judge was going out of his way to help me. My mind went back to the day at the ATS office when he was sitting on the floor answering questions, and I was sitting on the chair, feeling proud about being a veteran journalist. Today, my pride had been shattered into pieces. And perhaps had also made me a better person.
19
CHEERLEADERS
In the last week of December 2011, I met another inmate named Savita Maushi. She was in her fifties, and had been arrested along with her son for running a prostitution ring in Colaba. There was nothing to do after the daily bandi, so I struck up a conversation with her.
‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.
‘One-and-a-half years,’ she said.
‘I have never seen you at the barracks before?’
‘I was being treated at the J.J. Hospital,’ she said. ‘They discharged me only a few days ago.’
‘Hope all is well now?’
‘First class.’ She guffawed. ‘The government bore responsibility for my heart surgery as I was under arrest. And I saved nearly three-and-a-half lakh rupees on the operation. Being a guest of the state has its own benefits!’
Savita Maushi was rejoicing at her good fortune when a shrill voice echoed in the corridor and a female who looked to be in her twenties emerged, singing and dancing on her way towards the barracks. She was wearing a glittery salwar-kameez, and garish earrings. She strode down the stairs with the confidence of a supermodel walking down a ramp.
Savita Maushi stood up to greet her like she was a close relative. ‘My dear Fatima! So nice to see you again.’
Fatima beamed from the other side of the iron bars. ‘I am back!’
‘Great!’ Savita Maushi said. ‘Let’s catch up tomorrow.’
The cops followed quickly in Fatima’s wake and led her to Barrack No. 1 for the night. Savita Maushi told me that Fatima was a thief who had operated in the Cuffe Parade area under the garb of a maid. The next morning, Fatima came to meet everyone in Barrack No. 2. She hugged Paromita like a long-lost friend. Then she came to greet me, and Paromita formally introduced both of us. I took an instant liking to Fatima, because she was laughing and full of joy even inside a depressing place like Byculla Jail.
‘Where do you stay, Fatima?’ I asked.
‘Lalubhai Chawl,’ she said. ‘You know the area?’
‘Of course,’ I said. The area was one of the most notorious regions in Govandi, Mumbai, and famous for its pickpockets, thieves, murderers and all kinds of criminals. ‘But I was told you operate in Cuffe Parade?’
‘Correct,’ she said. ‘A good thief will never operate in the same area where she lives.’
‘Why?’
‘Not good for reputation,’ she said. Everyone broke out laughing.
‘So how come you are back now?’ I asked.
‘My partner fucked up on a simple job,’ she said.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘What happened?’
Apparently, Fatima had been working as a maid and babysitter for an affluent couple who lived on the seventeenth floor of a high-rise in the plush Cuffe Parade area. The couple had two children, aged three and five, whom Fatima would babysit while the parents went about their businesses and jobs. Fatima scanned the house for days, and she knew where the valuables were, what time the kids slept, and when it would be best to make off with the loot. On the day she finalized the robbery, she got one of her friends, Manisha, to help, because the loot was worth at least Rs 10 lakh. Everything went as per plan, except that the five-year-old child happened to wake up early that day. Manisha tried to threaten the kid into silence, which only aggravated the little brat more and he raised an alarm. Fatima managed to escape, while Manisha was caught by the neighbours and handed over to the police. Days later, Fatima was also arrested.
I was amazed at the value of the theft she had attempted. It didn’t sound exaggerated because the Cuffe Parade area was known for housing the rich and the wealthy. She explained that the value of the stolen goods was important, because after the robbery, she had to grease the palms of law enforcement agencies and lawyers and a certain portion of the loot also went to the cops as recovery. She would manage to steal from at least five to six homes before getting arrested each time.
‘So what happens now?’
‘The cops will file a charge sheet,’ she said. ‘But bail won’t be easy unless I give them a greater share of the pie.’
In addition to the relevant sections for robbery, the police had also charged her with Section 326 of Cr.PC which dealt with assault and made the case more serious. Savita Maushi told me that Fatima had made quite a fortune in her profession of choice, and she owned at least four flats in the city and had also invested in a lot of gold and property in her native village. Apparently, she also spent a lot of money on dining at expensive restaurants with her boyfriends. As days passed, Fatima and I began talking more frequently, especially during the night. During one such conversation, she told me that she had three kids, all of them girls, who were now in her mother’s care.
‘I miss them,’ she said. ‘And I miss Javed too.’
‘Who is he? Your husband?’
‘No.’ She giggled. ‘My boyfriend.’
I gasped. ‘You have three children with your boyfriend?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I divorced the chutiya who fathered my children a long time back.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Saleem,’ she said. ‘The funny part is that Javed and Saleem were best friends!’
I burst out laughing at her tone. ‘How did you get together with Javed?’
She told me that Javed was a rickshaw driver in Govandi, and would visit her home often because he was Saleem’s best friend. After she had divorced Saleem, she realized that Javed was interested in her. The exchange of shy glances led her to sit in his rickshaw one day, and off they went to a motel on the outskirts of Mumbai. Inside the motel room, she ordered beer. When she was high enough, she ordered him to take off his clothes. As he stripped, she asked if he had been smart enough to get a condom along. He pulled out a small packet from the pocket of his pants, and held it up for her to see. But there was a problem—Javed had never worn a condom before, and he was nervous. She sat cross-legged on the bed, all naked and ready, and smiling as Javed struggled with the piece of rubber. Finally, she crooked a finger and called him over. And then, she rolled down the condom on him. But her problems did not end there. Javed did not have much experience with women and he struggled to perform in bed. When she finally held him in his hands and guided him inside, he went limp.
‘What a put-off!’ Fatima told me. ‘The behenchod held his useless lauda in his hands and went to sleep.’
I laughed so loudly at the story that a couple of inmates woke up and chided me for disturbing their sleep. I apologized to them, but still could not stop giggling. Questions of morality aside, her manner of telling stories was very funny. She was a woman who loved sex, and was completely unapologetic about it.
Moments like these that made me laugh were few and far between. What amazed me was that Fatima’s spirit was not broken despite her situation. A few nights later, she began narrating another incident to me.
‘After numerous attempts, Javed got better with fucking, but I decided not to waste my hard-earne
d money on hotel rooms.’
‘Then where did you make out?’
‘In his rickshaw.’
My jaw almost hit the floor. ‘What!’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But even that was a disaster.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
She told me that Javed drove her to a deserted road in Trombay. The area is located on the outskirts of Mumbai, and sparsely populated. He parked the rickshaw somewhere in the vicinity of Bhabha Atomic Research Centre, one of India’s premier nuclear research facilities. Javed had a different sort of research on his mind. He wanted to have anal sex. Fatima was fairly open to the idea because, according to her, he wouldn’t need to put on a condom. So they undressed and tried to get intimate on the back seat of the rickshaw. But Javed had underestimated the difficulty of anal sex. The entire rickshaw shook with the effort. Fatima turned and scorned him, and that was all it took for him to go limp again.
‘I told the motherfucker to never show me his lauda again,’ Fatima told me. ‘But even he was addicted to sex now. For the next three days, we fucked in all different places.’
‘And what happened on the fourth day?’
‘The police arrested me for the botched job at Cuffe Parade,’ she said and laughed.
Often during our late-night conversations, Fatima would speak about her active sex life. What was the first thing she wanted to do after she got bail? Nobody in Byculla Jail had a problem guessing that.
In January 2012, a heavily pregnant inmate called Vinita was moved to Barrack No. 2. She was Fatima’s friend, and also an old-timer at Byculla Jail. She had been in and out on various charges over the past ten years. She also lived in Govandi, but operated in the Juhu area, living by the code of conduct of thieves, which meant everyone stuck to their designated areas. Fatima also swore by the code.