Behind Bars in Byculla

by Jigna Vora

  Asha and I became good friends. When the barracks were opened each morning, Asha would come down to Barrack No. 2 to meet me as soon as she could. Sometimes, I would go to her barrack. We would often cut vegetables for the meals and talk about our lives. Jailers used to assign us various tasks, such as cutting vegetables, cleaning rice, and separating wheat and chaff. It was a good way of killing time. Seeing the worms in the vegetables, we were thankful to have a chance to be able to cut out the spoiled parts. When I narrated my case to Asha, she was sure that I was innocent. On my inquiring about her case, she revealed that she had been arrested for committing a fraud of Rs 25 crore. Apparently, a chit fund that she had started with her husband for the dhobis (washermen) who lived near Dhobi Talao had gone bust. I remembered reading this in the newspapers before my arrest. Asha, a native of Uttar Pradesh, lived at Mahalakshmi with her husband, Ramesh, who was a very good cook and into the catering business. Asha swore that she had no intention of cheating the laundry men. Everything was going well, and her investments had ensured good payments to those who had given her money. She had even opened an office near Arthur Road. But at some point, she messed up, and things got out of hand. She had every intention to repay the dhobis, and had even sold her land in UP and all her jewellery for that purpose. Her requests to the dhobis about not filing a police case yielded no result, and the police had arrested her and her husband. She often cried, and reiterated that she was not running a scam.

  Even though my rational mind could see ponzi written all over her scheme, in my heart I felt she was innocent. Because I had been framed, I was inclined to believe each woman in Byculla Jail was innocent. The police could ruin anyone they wanted to. After the arrest of an accused, the media only covers what the police have to say. And unlike the police, most accused do not have the liberty or the means to organize a press conference in their defence. So there’s no real way of hearing or knowing the accused’s side of the story.

  I had instructed my family against speaking to the media. The version of the cops is held to be the gospel truth until the court verdict is delivered. No wonder so many cases that the police claim are ‘watertight’ in their press conferences fall flat in a court of law.

  Every time I cried in front of Asha, she would console me like a mother. Often, she would get me wafers and bourbon biscuits from the jail canteen. On the days I was fasting, Asha would arrange for some bananas and milk for me. Family members were allowed to visit us once in a week, between 3.30 p.m. and 5.30 p.m. A lawyer could visit every day if required. Asha’s daughter and grandson came to see her one day. But after the meeting, Asha returned to the barrack with tears in her eyes.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked her.

  ‘My grandson wants to know when his nani will be back home,’ she said and wept.

  I tried to console her. ‘Is your daughter coping well?’

  ‘Yes. Her in-laws are very understanding. My son is in Bengaluru. He is about to get married soon. I hope the police don’t arrest him.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Everything will be okay.’

  Asha’s case was registered by the Economic Offences Wing, and was being heard in the court at the Azad Maidan police station premises. The police had filed a charge sheet against her, but she hadn’t secured bail yet. On a day of a court visit, Asha was under considerable stress.

  ‘The complainants take out a morcha against me during every visit,’ she said. ‘They shout slogans.’

  I tried to pep her up. ‘But you will also meet your husband. And your daughter will get home-cooked food for you.’

  ‘I am scared,’ she said.

  ‘What worse can happen to us?’ I said. ‘We are in hell already.’

  That somewhat soothed her, and she went to court in better spirits. When she returned that day, she told me that a lot of people had turned up against her and shouted slogans for the judge to hear.

  ‘Oh, forget it, Asha Aunty,’ I said. ‘What did your family say?’

  She replied that her husband had joked about her greying hair, and they had shared a good meal.

  ‘Tell Ramesh Uncle that once we are free,’ I said, ‘I will come over to eat his specially cooked veg biryani.’

  ‘We will also make some kopra pak for dessert.’ Asha smiled. ‘Just for you.’

  *

  Jaya Chheda tried her best to break the bond between Asha and me. Jaya was always waiting for me to make a mistake, so that she could screw me over. But I spent most of my time praying, and stayed away from all trouble.

  ‘Do the two of you gossip about me?’ Jaya would ask Asha.

  ‘No,’ Asha said. ‘We only chant the name of Bajrangbali.’

  Soni Ajwani would often join Asha and me in the veranda. She was roughly my age, had coloured blonde hair, and when I first saw her, she was wearing a white shirt and jeans. She was also lodged in Barrack No. 5. Soni had lived as a paying guest in a bungalow at Pali Hill. She was arrested by the Economic Offences Wing for duping businessmen by selling them fake airline tickets. Her aged father could not run around for her bail. Her sister lived in Dubai, and when she would come to Mumbai, she would do the legwork for Soni’s release. She was also the accused in cases wherein cheques had bounced. I never saw Soni crying or emotionally vulnerable. She would often talk about her favourite restaurants like Mini Punjab and Barbecue Nation.

  ‘Do you go pubbing?’ she asked me once.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t drink anyway.’

  Her PG was right next to Karisma Kapoor’s apartment. Inmates would often ask her about the film stars in Bandra. Soni never spoke a lot, but I derived a lot of emotional support from her. She was one of the few educated people in the jail, and the only one with whom I could hold a sensible conversation.

  *

  Asha and I believed the barren tree in the compound to be a form of Hanumanji. When the tree would be filled with leaves and flowers again, we believed, we would be set free. This thought gave us a sense of security, and the faith that God would smile upon us some day and give us back our freedom. Months passed. And eventually, leaves started appearing on the branches. I recognized then that it was a neem tree. Small yellow flowers blossomed upon it slowly.

  22

  MY WORLD WAR III

  Our legal strategy was to file for bail after the police filed the charge sheet. Jayesh had an inkling that the sessions court would reject my plea. He believed we had a better chance in the high court. The charge sheet was filed towards the end of February 2012. With clouds of uncertainty hovering like demons, I collaborated with Jayesh to prepare our rebuttal to the allegations on the charge sheet. But even as we stepped into March, Jayesh did not apply for bail. FSL reports of my laptop and phone were pending. We did not know what those reports would throw at us. Every passing day was filled with frustration.

  Jayesh and I agreed on hiring the services of Senior Advocate Sudeep Pasbola. Drafting a bail application at his office implied a significant legal expense. The arguments would be charged separately. I conveyed to my family to hand over the requisite funds to Jayesh. Pasbola’s office began drafting the application. But even by April 2012, my bail application had not seen the corridors of the sessions court. Raja Thakur, who was a member of my legal team, came to meet me for a mulaqaat on one Saturday.

  ‘Go ahead and file my bail application,’ I said.

  He looked at me as if I had committed sacrilege. ‘Jayesh won’t be too happy if we bypass him.’

  ‘Where the fuck is he then?’

  ‘He is visiting Ganpatipule for his daughter’s first birthday.’

  ‘I can’t rot in here for ever!’ I said. ‘Get the application moving!’

  Raja sensed my seriousness and filed the bail application on the next Monday, 7 April 2012. Predictably, Jayesh returned from his holiday and threw a tantrum during our next meeting.

  ‘What was the urgency?’ Jayesh asked. ‘You could have waited.’

  ‘For how long?’

 
; ‘It is not as if you’ll get bail tomorrow.’

  ‘Exactly. What if the sessions court rejects? Who knows how long the high court process will take? We need to move faster.’

  ‘The FSL reports are pending,’ he said.

  ‘The FSL reports can go to hell,’ I said. ‘I am tired of waiting. Get the argument dates from Pasbola sir.’

  After a big fight in which I hurled a number of expletives at Jayesh, he finally saw my point and agreed to move ahead with the bail plea. But he came to meet me again after a couple of days to discuss an important development. He wanted to engage the services of Advocate Niranjan Mundargi for the bail instead of Sudeep Pasbola.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘The FSL reports have arrived. There are no incriminating findings against you. I have discussed the case with Mundargi already. He says we have a fair chance of success in the sessions court itself.’

  I was aware that Niranjan Mundargi was a high court counsel. His fee would be much higher. But I knew I could trust Jayesh with my life. He had a free hand in making these decisions. After all, he was more of a friend than my lawyer. He would never misguide me.

  ‘Get the dates for the argument, then,’ I said.

  Jayesh smiled. ‘We’ll start around the end of May.’

  *

  One day, I was chatting with Asha Pardeshi in Byculla Jail when Seema Kapoor approached me. She had been arrested for heading a prostitution racket. She had already secured bail and was about to be released in a few days.

  ‘Here’s my number,’ she told me. ‘Call me when you are out.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  She ran a finger down my cheek. ‘A beautiful girl like you, my dear, should make at least a lakh every week.’

  Even though I thought I had seen everything during all these months inside this facility, Byculla Jail never failed to surprise me. However, Seema’s words did not shock me because I had been through worse humiliation during this ordeal. I merely stared at Seema, my heart beating fast in anger at her proposition.

  ‘You’ll serve only high-profile clientele,’ she said. ‘Politicians. Actors.’

  I took a deep breath as I heard the ‘perks’ of her job offer. I wanted her to leave. She got the signal and walked away. Asha Pardeshi was looking away out of embarrassment. As soon as Seema left, a tear rolled down my cheek. People were offering me prostitution jobs now! Is that what my life had become?

  Later that night, sounds of marriage processions and the tempting scents from roadside eateries wafted into Barrack No. 2. There were three windows with iron rods in the barrack, high up the walls and beyond the reach of the inmates. As I had often done on other nights, I thought of the world outside and made up my mind to never venture anywhere close to Byculla once I was out of this living hell.

  *

  To cover the ever-growing legal expenses, my family decided to sell off my grandmother’s ancestral silver jewellery and heirlooms that had been in the family for at least a century. My grandfather had borne most of the costs of my case. A ‘court group’ had been created within my family and included those who were supporting me through the trial. The group would have lunch at Chetna Hotel after my hearings. We had all managed to grow closer during this tribulation. My grandfather would cover travelling expenses for some of my relatives in the court group as they were not from a financially sound background. The house was also running on my grandfather’s investments. But there was the definite crunch of hard cash. My fixed deposits and savings had already been used. Yet, I protested against selling the silver. My aunt convinced me that it was necessary. Much to my guilt, the silver was sold for a sum of Rs 5 lakh.

  As Jayesh had promised, the arguments for my bail began towards the end of May 2012. The hearings would be held once in four to five days. Niranjan Mundargi played a crucial role in refuting the allegations of the prosecution. He submitted that the SMS that I had allegedly sent to J. Dey was not on record. No complaint had been lodged by the deceased or on his behalf with respect to that SMS. There was a huge gap in the date on which the SMS was sent and the day of the murder.

  Mundargi then came to the confession of a witness who had stated that I had instigated Chhota Rajan for the murder of J. Dey. He contested that the incriminating portions were concocted by the police and were not a part of the transcript of the intercepted communication that had been placed on record.

  As for the statement of another witness about my role in assisting Chhota Rajan with the crime, Mundargi argued that the statement showed communication between the witness and Chhota Rajan on two occasions after a gap of one or two days. He submitted that the incriminating portion about my role did not find a place in the first communication, and appeared to have been concocted in the second.

  The information that I had allegedly supplied to Chhota Rajan was freely available on the Internet. Another accused, Vinod Asrani, alias Vinod Chembur, had already identified J. Dey to his shooters by hugging J. Dey at a bar, days prior to the assault.

  The prosecution had alleged that I had repeatedly tried to contact Chhota Rajan through Paulson, another accused in this case. Mundargi contested that there was no need for me to establish such contact, and even if it was presumed that I tried to establish contact, it could be for my professional work as a crime reporter.

  He also brought up the two calls that I had received from the number +3444 on 25 May 2011. These were the incoming calls through which I had conducted an interview with Chhota Rajan in my professional capacity and in the presence of my editor, Hussain Zaidi. This interview was printed in the Asian Age on 26 May 2011 under the headline ‘Rival Don Calls, Says Dawood Left Pak 5 Years Ago’.

  The prosecution took their own time to file a reply. Public Prosecutor Raja Thakare submitted that I had transgressed my limits as a reporter, and I had added fuel to the fire. The statement of the witnesses was sufficient material to establish my role in the case. The absence of incriminating portions would be explained by the witnesses during the trial. He submitted that the boarding pass of my vacation to Sikkim had not been filed. He also contested that it was not necessary for every conspirator to know the role of other conspirators. To illustrate, he used the analogy of a city bus in which any passenger may board and get down at any time. Near the end of June, the defence and prosecution had both played their hands. It was up to Judge S.M. Modak to decide if I deserved bail or jail.

  On 27 July 2012, the neem tree was blooming with life. Happiness coursed through me when I glanced at that tree. Most of my family turned up in court for a decision on the bail plea. Thankfully, the media was not allowed inside. I came out of the court with tears in my eyes. A court reporter from a national daily walked up to me.

  ‘Your bail must have been rejected, right?’ she asked.

  The question stabbed me like a knife in my gut. She seemed dejected to hear from my uncle that my bail plea had been accepted! The next day, the media was full of reports that the prime accused in the J. Dey murder case had been granted bail. The media never reported that I got bail because there was no incriminating evidence against me. They had forever floated the theory that I was primarily seeking bail on medical grounds for being asthmatic and for being a single mother.

  The next day, the media turned up in full force outside Byculla Jail in the hope of getting a picture of me walking out. A constable told me that a media van was positioned outside. Extra police bandobast had been made. But Jayesh had already told my family that bail did not mean I would walk out the next day as I had to give a surety of Rs 1 lakh, and the procedure would take some time. The media seemed to have missed this detail. My anxiety increased manifold during this period. I kept imagining that the police would come up with some fake evidence or new angle to save face. In the meantime, to my surprise, Dr Khan, the jail doctor, had me admitted to the J.J. Hospital, but they put me into the TB ward, with patients coughing all around. Later, I came to know that inmates are generally admitted in this ward first, and later, de
pending upon their disease, are shifted to different wards.

  Just like a patient admitted in hospital wants to go home at the earliest, I wanted to return to the world I had got used to over the past ten months. I kept pleading with the hospital authorities to send me back to jail. Two trainee doctors wanted to check on me, but I was so suspicious that I never allowed them to touch me. I did not sleep a wink for two nights. I was glad that the media wasn’t aware that I had been admitted to J.J. Hospital, else they would set up camps outside it. On the third day, I was sent back to Byculla Jail.

  On 9 August 2012, I took permission from the court to speak to my son who was in his hostel in Panchgani. I told him that I would walk out of jail in a day or two. On 11 August, around 7.00 a.m., the jailer Pushpa Kadam called me to her cabin. I suspected that she was calling me because I had volunteered to cook sabudana khichdi that was to be served in jail.

  She gave me a wry smile. ‘Your packet has arrived.’

  ‘What packet, madam?’

  ‘The memo for your release on bail,’ she said. ‘Get your packing done by 10.00 a.m.’

  I could have danced my way back to the barracks, but I had grown so superstitious that I didn’t want anyone to know. I took a bath and dressed in the new suit that my aunt had brought for this occasion. Paromita noticed the spring in my step. ‘Your memo arrived?’ she asked. I nodded. She hugged me.

  Around 10.00 a.m., one of the inmates, Pinki, arrived with a chit of names of those who were going to be released that day. She shouted loud enough for all the inmates to hear. ‘Jigna Vora sutli!’ (Jigna Vora released).

  Those words were music to my ears. Paromita asked Pinki to let all the barracks on all the floors know about this news. The Africans formed a circle and danced to celebrate my release. Some of the inmates wanted to keep my belongings for good luck. They took over my unused packets of toothpaste, soap and even the unused sanitary pads! I hugged everyone and walked out of the barracks. In the judicial area, I ran into Ajay Sawant, who was an officer from the Crime Branch. The mere sight of him made me shiver. Was he here to cancel my bail?