The movement of the torchlight was clear and vivid. In the pitch darkness, the systematic and well-co-ordinated movement of light was unmissable. The torch moved in a slow, fluid movement, forming the capital letter B with the light; then, after a brief break, it made the Hindi letter ba and then the Urdu letter bey.
This was not part of some choreographed sound and light show taking place at a heritage monument. It was actually a subtle signal being transmitted to an Arab dhow in the high seas, which was waiting to move forward and get closer. The dhow operator, who was watching this light signal of the illuminated B, ba and bey, through his binoculars, was satisfied with the cipher.
This was an indication that the men in the boat were from Bashu Dada’s gang. The B was a signal meant to show their group affiliation. When the dhow came closer, the seven men from the vessel intoned: ‘Arabi maal, Dubai ki dhamaal (Goods from Arabia, fun from Dubai).’ In response, Bashu’s men chorused back: ‘Bashu Bambai ka badshah (Bashu is the emperor of Bombay).’ The preprogrammed code was a safety measure to rule out the presence of customs cops or rival gangs who could have weaselled out the consignment from right under their nose.
Once the contact and codes were established and verified, the two groups started transferring the consignment from the dhow to the smaller fishing boats—huge rectangular slabs of silver weighing 35 kg each, called the ‘silver brick’, or chaandi ki eenth. Each boat could handle a maximum of seventy bricks, but since the journey was short from the middle of the sea to the shore, the fear of capsizing was less. Once ashore, the silver bricks were quickly transported to a jeep or a tempo. The dhow normally carried 500 bricks, and it took all night for the bricks to be loaded on to the fishing boat and then on to the vehicle on the shore.
Bashu and Khalid were on the shore, supervising the whole operation. They oversaw the loading of the silver on to the jeeps by the burly men. Their presence on shore was crucial for them in several ways: if at all they were in danger of a surprise raid by customs or police officers, they would be able to easily escape from the shore after sensing trouble from afar.
If Khalid was awestruck by the whole episode, he didn’t show it. It was the first time for him. The first time he had discovered that Bashu smuggled silver and not gold. By now he had, of course, realized that Bashu was not a legitimate businessman. In the 1960s and 1970s, smuggling was considered a shortcut to riches. And Bashu was very rich. But Khalid never asked, and it took a while for Bashu to take him into confidence. He was also to learn that Bashu was not exactly a smuggler but only a landing agent.
Khalid was an economics graduate and he understood business economics and logistics better than the illiterate Bashu. The calculations that Bashu shared with Khalid were mind-boggling. Silver, as compared to gold, was a cheaper metal but each brick earned a margin of Rs 10,000–15,000, depending on market trends. Every silver consignment easily translated into a massive profit of over 50 lakh. After greasing the palms of corrupt customs officials and other irritants, they would still make a clean profit of Rs 25 lakh, which was a phenomenal figure in the early 1970s. And by a conservative estimate, even if they made four landings a year, they would stand to pocket a cool Rs 1 crore. And to think that he wanted to work as a policeman on a salary of Rs 500 per month. Khalid laughed when he thought about where his life could have gone.
Bashu and Khalid got into his Mercedes after the goods were loaded into waiting tempos and jeeps. It was a long journey of over 172 km from Vapi in Gujarat to Bombay. En route, Bashu explained the intricacies of the trade and the advantages of dealing in silver and not gold: ‘I want to seize the lion’s share in the bullion market,’ he boasted.
Bashu told Khalid about his connections in Dubai and also about other landing spots near Raigad and on the Gujarat coasts. Khalid listened attentively. He instinctively felt drawn towards this business. Smuggling did not seem like a sin. There was no bloodshed involved; it did not feel like a crime. Khalid came from a world far removed from criminality and wrongdoing. He knew that once he stepped into this territory, it would be a world very different from the world he was accustomed to, of nobility and nawabs. It would be goodbye to the genteel way of life that he grew up with.
But who could resist the lure of money. It was not a small sum but a massive jackpot available for the picking. No other business or enterprise could fetch so much money in one go. Khalid decided to master the business. He realized that Bashu had his own shortcomings and could handle the business only on a limited scale despite his background and muscle power.
If Khalid were to make improvements to the business, he would first have to zero in on the most obvious lacunae. He felt it was important to be a smuggler—not a landing agent. It is the smuggler who controls both the consigner and the consignee and therefore reaps the maximum windfall in the deal. He also felt that Bashu should make inroads into gold smuggling. Khalid possessed a sharp business acumen and began exploring permutations and combinations to take their dealings further. An illiterate criminal is harmful but an educated criminal is fatally dangerous, almost lethal. Khalid’s inclination and aspiration to become a smuggler would eventually put a dent in the already doddering Indian economy.
It was the Indo-China war in 1962 that drove home the extent of the foreign-exchange drain. The opening up of the economy and allowing a liberal trade regime to flourish was simply not in the government’s scheme of things. The then finance minister, Morarji Desai, who was with the Congress at the time, blamed it on gold. Over the next seven years he introduced a series of steps that he thought would help rein in the problem. The Gold Control Act was introduced. From banning the production of gold jewellery above 14 carats to introducing gold bond schemes with taxes exempt for unaccounted wealth, he tried everything. But nothing worked. Finally, the Gold Control Act of 1968 came into force, which forbade citizens from owning gold in the form of bars and coins. It was a draconian law that impinged on the right of an individual to secure his own future by hoarding gold. It became mandatory for those in possession of gold bars to melt it to make gold jewellery and even declare the same to the government. Goldsmiths too faced a massive crackdown from the government. They could not own more than 100 gm of gold and even licensed gold dealers could not own more than 2 kg of gold. Gold trading was banned. Under those circumstances, the legal market for gold simply vanished overnight as the underground market flourished.
Financial experts and economists believe that we lost a decade of economic progress because, given our government’s obsession with gold, we lost out on other economic opportunities and, worse, compounded our economic woes with the rampant smuggling of gold and silver from those Gulf nations that had a liberal gold policy.
Imagine, had this gold ‘smuggling’ been legalized between the years 1970 and 1992, gold would have accounted for 70 per cent of the imports into India. Instead, the Indian government was battling the fallout of gold smuggling, like hawala rackets and other money-laundering schemes that were being used to pay for the illegally imported gold into the country.
After Bashu dozed off in the car, Khalid’s mind was spinning furiously. He was thinking hard to strategize and come up with a fantastic plan that would impress Bashu and multiply their profits. Finally, when they reached their house in Telli Galli, Khalid had made his decision. But there was a problem with his plan. Khalid was ambitious and gutsy but he lacked market-related knowledge and experience. He wanted to crack this conundrum and realized that he needed to think more on the subject to be able to arrive at a solution.
By the time they got to their respective rooms and hit their beds, the sun was up. Khalid was unable to manage a restful sleep. He was tossing and turning in bed, struggling to sleep, and even though he was tired, he could not disconnect totally from the web of his thoughts. Sleep experts firmly believe that one should not take stressful thoughts to bed as they may hamper sleep. However, Roman scholars and Greek philosophers have their own interpretation of the same. Aristotle, who is revere
d in Indian literature as Arastu, had opined that men are capable of attaining clear wisdom only during sleep because it is only then that their minds are totally unshackled and free. One hears of people who often wake up in the morning bursting with a creative idea that becomes the roadmap of their life.
Khalid, too, was jolted awake because of a commotion outside. He wondered why, considering it was a Sunday and people like to sleep in longer on holidays. But the tumult and noise in the street forced him out of his bed. As he got up, he was hit with inspiration—an idea that became the solution to his riddle as well as the decision for his next step. This would give final shape to his plans for smuggling.
Khalid immediately dressed in a tight T-shirt and trousers, combed his long, curly hair and came out on the street. He was faced with a bizarre spectacle.
Two huge ostriches were locked in an adversarial stance, in full face-off mode, and were being coaxed to fight against each other. They were surrounded by a crowd of shouting and cheering men. There were also bets being placed on this fight. This looked like a scene straight out of Waziristan, where cockfights ruled the day. It was a picture of high energy, chaos and enthusiasm. It took a while for Khalid to figure out that once every three months, the Mumbai Pathans would go berserk with this ostrich showdown, a hand-me-down from their forefathers. While south Bombay’s rich jumped at the prospect of horse racing, the city’s other powerful men, mostly from the mafia, flexed their muscles through ostrich fights.
Khalid had never witnessed such a spectacle in his life. In fact, he had not even heard of this kind of fight between two birds. He had also not known about a turkey fight, which was very common those days. Ostrich fighting, on the other hand, is a different ball game altogether. The ostrich is a heavy bird and has a minimum weight of 100 kg. Its kick can kill an animal and even a man.
Khalid had heard of ostrich-racing competitions in Dubai, in which people rode on ostriches like jockeys on horses, after fixing the saddles, stirrups and reins. The races were considered to be quite interesting, sometimes even thrilling, with exciting photo finishes, just like in horse races. According to ornithologists, wild ostriches were prone to getting involved in territorial fights in order to gain supremacy and secure the right to including female ostriches in their group to ensure multiple mating facilities. The ostriches were capable of killing each other with merely a strong thrust of their heads.
Khalid saw that the ostrich’s necks were shaved so that each hit or bruise could be considered a score point in the competition. The fight continued for barely fifteen minutes before a referee intervened and the birds were separated. One of them was declared the winner. Before he could fathom what was about to happen, four men walked with a sack towards the apparently defeated bird, tied up its feet and neck, bundled it up and took it away.
Bashu, who had seen a flummoxed Khalid watching the fight confusedly, walked up to him and animatedly told him: ‘The fight is called shuturmurg kushti [ostrich wrestling]. It is much more interesting than human wrestling. And now we are going to have biryani made with ostrich meat, from the losing bird, and it will be far more delicious and bursting with protein than any other meat you may have had so far.’
While Khalid half-heartedly heard Bashu out, he was impatient to tell him about the grandiose plans he had been contemplating through the night since their return from Vapi. As he was about to speak up, Bashu turned towards him and introduced Khalid to a middle-aged man.
‘Yeh Ibrahim Bhai hain, yeh police mein head constable the (This is Ibrahim Bhai, he used to be a head constable in the police) . . . He wanted to meet you,’ said Bashu.
Khalid was totally mystified by this introduction. It seemed to be a friendly meeting and Ibrahim Bhai seemed to be a courteous and affable man, but why on earth would he want to meet Khalid? Khalid turned towards him and greeted him, ‘Salaam alaikum,’ also shaking hands with him.
‘Walaikum salaam, aap se milkar bahut khushi hui (It is very nice to meet you),’ Ibrahim Bhai replied. And he did seem genuinely happy to be meeting Khalid.
Then Ibrahim said something that further astonished Khalid: ‘My son Dawood was praising you highly after your heroic fight with the goondas last week. He wanted to meet you and shake hands with you and has been pestering his mother, asking her to intercede on his behalf. He desperately wanted to meet you.’ Ibrahim Bhai’s humility and sincerity was touching.
Khalid had not met such a modest and down-to-earth man—someone who enjoyed an excellent reputation in the force, was widely respected in the society and yet was so gentle and warm with a total stranger.
Khalid looked at the young boy with long unkempt hair, but one could not miss the glint in his eyes. The boy’s face was shining, it was as if he were meeting his idol. There was fascination writ large on his face.
Dawood was immediately impressed with Khalid’s persona: long hair, tight T-shirt with short sleeves accentuating his biceps and pectoral muscles; also noticeable were his strong, muscular thighs and well-shaped calf muscles. The boy suddenly realized that he was expected to say something; he immediately blurted out, ‘Khalid Bhai, salaam alaikum.’
Khalid greeted him back and gave him a wide grin.
This was the first introduction between Khalid and Dawood—it was the first time the mentor and the protégé ever shook hands.
As Khalid turned to look for Bashu again, to continue his conversation about his new plans, Dawood held out his hand and said, ‘Khalid Bhai, mujhe aap ki tarah banna hai, aap ke jaisa fight karna hai (I want to be like you, I want to fight like you).’
Khalid turned towards him perfunctorily, saying, ‘Haan haan, kyon nahin, bilkul sikha denge (Absolutely, I will teach you).’
But then, suddenly, Khalid left the spot, even as Dawood continued gaping at him. Khalid located Bashu and took him aside. Bashu was holding a 555 cigarette between his fingers and was about to light it but Khalid’s confident and elaborate strategy took his breath away. As Khalid kept talking, Bashu looked at him totally stunned. Bashu had presumed that Khalid was all brawn and no brain. But Khalid’s ambitious plans and his blueprint for smuggling showed him another side to the man. While he was impressed with Khalid’s intelligence, there was another emotion that was overriding the awe. Bashu realized that Khalid was not as simple as he seemed. He was quite a complex man with unbridled ambitions. A dangerous man with a very dangerous mind.
11
The Galadari Touch
The throne-like chairs with their ornate work and imposing presence did not deflect from the presence of those occupying it. The Galadari brothers of Dubai seemed aristocratic. They looked authoritative, and their home exuded regalia. They were listening raptly to an Indian seated on a sofa.
Their large drawing room, Khalid Pehelwan noted, was so large that it could fit all of Teli Mohalla inside it. The Galadaris lived in a palatial house. When a liveried steward floated in with the food trolley, Khalid noticed the expensive silverware and the hard silver sheet that adorned the tabletop.
As Khalid’s glance fell on the fittings and fixtures made of pure silver, he compared them with Bombay’s rich who thought they were a cut above the rest even if they had only had brass doorknobs like common folk.
Khalid had sat before them for over an hour, discussing the prospect of becoming the sole, exclusive gold-smuggling agents for the Galadaris. He was feeling overdressed and irritated at his beige-coloured safari suit with two big square pockets on the chest. He could not have possibly worn his half-sleeved shirts or a T-shirt, meant to display his muscular biceps. He wanted to be taken seriously—as a businessman with a proposition—and not as a badass from the big bad streets of Bombay.
It was October 1972 when a major port called Rashid, built by a British company, was inaugurated in Dubai. Khalid decided that this was his most opportune moment to make a trip to Dubai and had convinced Bashu about his plans.
Khalid’s logic and rationale persuaded Bashu to take the leap. A not-so-literate Bashu ha
d always focused on silver bricks and would have been content with a few lakh rupees in his pocket. In the 1970s, it was, of course, quite an enormous sum. But Khalid was ambitious and thought a bigger canvas to operate on would make them billionaires in a jiffy. He was an economics graduate and he spoke to Bashu about the return on investment (ROI) factor. The ROI, which decides the lucrative aspect of any enterprise, was his decisive argument that made Bashu buckle.
The plan was simple. Khalid told Bashu that if they dealt in gold smuggling, which was less voluminous, the profits would be huge, while silver bricks brought in lesser profits unless you smuggled it in bulk. The overheads were the same for both gold and silver, with the same huge sums allocated for bribing the policemen and customs officers. He pointed out that they earned only a 25 per cent profit margin in silver, but with gold smuggling they could net in 100 per cent. India’s Gold Control Act had made gold a scarce commodity. From jewellers to consumers to hoarders, everybody wanted gold that they wouldn’t need to declare to the government. While the demand for gold was soaring, the supply channel was weak and inconsistent.
‘If we facilitate a steady supply of gold in the market, we will have the prime mover advantage and will be the masters of the game,’ he announced to a stunned Bashu.
Khalid’s pitch was so powerfully perfect that Bashu found no need to question or dissuade him. What they needed was a partner on the other end who would regularly send gold to them. Khalid then offered to make a trip to Dubai, from where most of the gold was smuggled to India at the time.
After some initial hesitation, Bashu gave in and allowed Khalid to make a trip to Dubai. Bashu had made some calls through a chain of middlemen and organized a meeting with the Galadaris, who were among the legions of Iranians who had migrated to Dubai over a century ago.
Abdul Wahab, Abdul Latif and Abdul Rahim Galadari were among the elite Arab families of Iranian origin in Dubai. Hailing from the predominantly Sunni populace in the southern region of Galadar village in Shiite Iran, the brothers had made quite a fortune in a short time. Iran and Dubai enjoyed amiable relations, and migration was easier and convenient on both sides of the borders.
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