By the time I turned twenty-four, I knew many people like me, who were doing drugs deliberately and happily. I also knew dealers and started making deals with them. It was time for me to move on. With the contacts I had developed, I could now procure drugs for others at a very good price.
I had always imagined that I was like James Bond—one who has brilliant contacts and can ferret out any kind of information from anybody. I threw myself into the role with full dedication. As I dealt with the drug dealers of Chicago, it dawned on me that I was quite adept at manipulating people and ensuring that they listened to what I said; I also knew that I could be charming and likeable, which helped in securing the trust of these dealers. Very soon, within a year or so, I had managed to penetrate quite deep into the trade. Drug dealing became a significant side business for me.
It was around this time that I got married for the first time. She was a Canadian, who had just graduated from the Pennsylvania State University, and was working at the Khyber Pass Pub. We married in 1985. It wasn’t to be a long union, because we didn’t see eye to eye on many things. For instance, she could never understand why I hated Indians so much.
The marriage came to an end soon after an argument at my video store, when I hit her, a backhand blow with my right hand. My wife complained to the police about the incident, and I was arrested for assault. However, I did not get a very long sentence. It was just after this, in 1987, that my wife and I divorced. She has since remarried and settled down in Chester County, where she works as a real-estate consultant.
But this wasn’t a major setback for me. I had the video store business, and I had my own little drug trade on the side. Everything was hunky-dory, until I had my first serious run-in with the cops.
I may have thought of myself as James Bond, but nothing changed the fact that I was up against the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA). In 1988, I was arrested in a drug bust by officers of the DEA. They told me that if I cooperated, they would show me some leniency. So I turned approver, and they made me rat on my fellow traders. Instead of being handed a fifteen-year-long sentence, I was rewarded for my cooperation with the DEA, and given a jail term of only four and a half years.
I was locked up in the Chicago State Penitentiary. At that time, it seemed like one of the biggest horrors that I had ever faced in my life. I had never been to prison before, even though I had heard people talk about it. I could never have imagined what the inside of a prison looked like. It was a revelation.
There were all kinds of people in that prison. There was a Jew who always stayed in a corner. Whenever I saw him, he appeared to be praying. I later learned that the four-foot-eleven-inch-tall man had killed six people. But in there, in prison, what seemed even more terrible was that half his face had been eaten away by cancer.
There was another man called Ayub Anwar. He was always in the gym, working out. Although he and I never interacted, I followed his example and started working out too. Soon, all the excess flab that I had was knocked off, and my body became toned and streamlined. I later learned that Ayub Anwar had killed a man in prison, inside that very gym.
But the group I was attracted to was a bunch of black men. They were Americans, but called themselves the Islamic Nation Gang. They were Christians who had very recently converted to Islam. In prisons across the US, priests and preachers are allowed inside the prison to speak and preach to the inmates. While most people around me had converted to Christianity, the blacks had chosen Islam.
The men of the Islamic Nation Gang offered namaz openly, without fear of anyone. They were such a ferocious bunch that no one opposed them or got in their way. Maybe it was because of this clout and power they wielded, or maybe it was their adherence to Islam, but I was drawn to them, and they took me in with open arms. I started joining them in offering namaz, and became close to them in the process. For the next four and a half years, I was the only white man in the otherwise all-black Islamic Nation Gang. And because I was Muslim, and more educated than they were, and had far more international exposure, having lived in Pakistan, very soon I became the leader of the gang. They started looking up to me. Life in prison became good all of a sudden; I know now that it made a man of me.
After four and a half years, I was released on parole.
FIVE
It was difficult not to be scared. Vilas and I were inside the pathharwali (stone) building, as it is known among the criminal classes, the place that instils fear in the lawless, the stone-walled second floor of the Crime Branch building in the Mumbai Police headquarters, opposite Crawford Market.
This building is where crooks are broken daily, where many innocent men too have been made scapegoats just so that the cops could cover their failures. It was almost impossible not to be afraid. The room we were in was air-conditioned, and yet we were sweating. The whole atmosphere was grim. Everyone seemed to be an enemy, and we felt we would be arrested any moment now and put behind bars.
I had been feeling very apprehensive ever since my father set up the meeting with the cops the night before. I had spent a sleepless night, and had woken up just as tense and frayed as when I went to bed.
The night before had not ended well. After my mother and Pooja had convinced me, Pooja got on her hotline with our father and explained the entire situation to him. He wasn’t in town that day. The three of them argued over the pros and cons of going to the police—the entire day was spent discussing this. However, my mother was adamant throughout, and maintained that I should go to the cops myself.
The next day, Mr Bhatt called me. The first words he uttered were, ‘Kya hua tera yeh?’
Haltingly at first, and then almost defiantly, I told him about my association with David Headley, and that the man in the news, the one named Rahul that everyone was harping about, was actually me.
‘Didn’t you know?’ my father asked me, sounding incredulous.
‘I thought he was just an American. Mujhe kaise pata hoyega ki yeh Lashkar ka agent niklega! Mujhe thodi malum tha!’ I said, a little exasperatedly.
‘Tune kuch paise liye usse?’ he said. ‘Ya toh koi samaan?’
I felt quite offended at this, and made it clear in my tone. He was asking me if I had taken money or delivery of any material from David. ‘Maine kuch nahin liya hai, agar liya hota, sidha sidha bolunga main,’ I snapped at him. I hadn’t taken anything.
There was a pause at the other end. Then he said, ‘Thik hain. Main Rakesh se tera appointment leta hoon, jaake unse mil lena.’ Then, just as abruptly as he had called, he hung up.
A little later, he called back as the three of us sat waiting in our living room, the TV still on, watching a news channel. I had put the TV on mute to drown out the constant reminder of my association with someone I idolized. The man I looked up to as a father was now being branded a terrorist, yet, ironically, my biological father was the one who had always terrorized me. I was left wondering who the real terrorist was!
‘I have spoken to Rakesh Maria. He will meet you tomorrow morning at eleven,’ Mr Bhatt told me gruffly. Rakesh Maria was Joint Commissioner, Crime Branch back then. He is now chief of the Anti-Terrorism Squad, Maharashtra.
‘Have you told him what it is about?’ I asked him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I only told him that it has something to do with the David Headley case.’
‘Very helpful of you,’ I said. I knew I should thank him, show some sign of gratitude, but my dislike for him was too intense. I just wished him goodnight and hung up.
My mother was looking at me reproachfully, but I ignored it. I admired my mother for her courage. For one thing, she always insisted that I should be deferential towards Mr Mahesh Bhatt, despite everything he had done to her. And she always censured and rebuked me if I crossed the line with my father.
I looked at her with ever-increasing affection and told her and Pooja that I was tired and had to get some sleep, and before they could start counselling me on what to tell the cops, I got up and went to my room.
&nb
sp; When I got up the next morning, the bright light of day that streamed in through the open windows did nothing to comfort me or ease the tension. And the grim, concerned faces of my mother and Pooja weren’t helping at all. I felt feverish, and had already taken two Calpol tablets, a common over-the-counter painkiller, within the space of an hour. Of course, my mother kept telling me that it was not fever, I was just anxious and nervous about what would happen.
Soon, Vilas arrived, looking just as worried. In fact, he looked more frightened than I did. I had called him the previous night just after speaking to Mr Bhatt, and told him that he and I would go to the Crime Branch to tell the cops what we knew. But Vilas was too scared, and refused to meet me at the Crime Branch office. So I had asked him to come to my house, from where we would proceed to the Crime Branch together.
I took another Calpol, and without waiting any longer, we got into my car. We didn’t speak much on the ride there, but I sensed that Vilas was nervous, so I tried to calm him down. ‘Bro, tune kuch galti toh nahin kiya na?’
He looked at me pleadingly, and said, ‘Tujhe malum hai maine kuch nahin kiya yaar!’
‘Toh tension mat le. Jo poochta hai, direct jawab de aur koi panga mat le, dekhna koi mushkil nahin hoga,’ I told Vilas, feeling nowhere near as confident as I sounded.
Vilas sat back, looking a little less scared. Although I was no less frightened, I had to stay strong.
I parked the car outside the Crime Branch office; I was still feeling feverish, so I had another Calpol. Then I strode into the office of the Crime Branch. Vilas followed me, shuffling his feet.
We had only just taken a couple of steps inside when we were stopped by a couple of burly officers, pot-bellied and moustached. ‘Thamba, checking karaitcha,’ growled a constable in Marathi, approaching from behind the desk. We waited, arms outstretched, as two men frisked us thoroughly. ‘Maria saab se milna hai,’ I told them, trying to sound brisk. ‘Appointment hai.’
It didn’t impress our friskers, though, and they carried on with their search. Finally, one of them picked up a phone and dialled a three-digit number. ‘Naav kae?’ he asked me imperiously. ‘Rahul Bhatt, Mahesh Bhatt ka beta,’ I said, noting that this blatant namedropping did not have the kind of softening effect on the cop that I had thought it would.
‘Rahul Bhatt,’ he barked into the phone. He looked at me balefully as he waited, ear to the receiver, for a sign from above. Finally, he said, ‘Ho.’
We went up the narrow flight of stairs, along long, musty corridors, right through to the office of Rakesh Maria. We waited outside while an underling went in and announced our arrival to the chief of Mumbai Police’s Crime Branch. Within a minute he came back out and held the door open, indicating to us that we were to go in.
Vilas and I looked at each other and went in.
It was a huge office, designed to fill a visitor with awe and apprehension.
A huge bronze shield hung on the wall behind Rakesh Maria’s high-backed chair. On it was the police emblem and motto in Sanskrit: Sadrakshanaye khalanigrahanaye. I later learned that it means ‘for the protection of the good and destruction of evil’. On the walls were a few paintings, modern art I gathered, something that has never interested me. One corner had bookshelves with huge volumes of books on international and Indian law.
Maria was seated behind a vast C-shaped table. Two rows of chairs were placed facing him, and I inferred that these must be meant for story-hungry newshounds whom Maria summoned to press conferences, which were commonly referred to among journalists as ‘Maria ka darbar’.
Vilas and I were now present in Maria ka darbar, and he had every reason to behave like a king and treat us like lowly patsies. We sat down across the table from him. He clearly had a lot of work to do, and his phones kept ringing constantly during the time we were there. His desk too was piled high with paperwork, and he had the air of a man who didn’t have time to meet and talk to anyone, but was being polite since he had no choice but to do so.
‘So, Rahul? Your father told me that you think you can give us some information about the David Headley case?’ Maria said, leaning back in his chair, obviously not expecting much, as I could tell from his demeanour.
‘Yes, sir, I do,’ I said, and decided not to beat about the bush. ‘You know the person named Rahul everyone is talking about, the one who was mentioned in David Headley’s emails?’
‘Yes?’ said Maria. ‘You think you can tell me something about his identity?’
‘I am that Rahul, sir. I am the Rahul in the emails.’
Nervous though I was, I noted with not a little satisfaction that the half-smile on Maria’s lips had disappeared and the blood had drained from his face.
‘What did you say?’ he asked, as if he had not heard correctly.
‘Woh Rahul main hi hoon, sir,’ I repeated. I am that Rahul.
He sat up. I could tell that his mind was working furiously on the implications of my statement. ‘Okay. How exactly do you know that it is indeed you?’ he asked me.
‘Because I knew him,’ I told him.
His jaw dropped. I could tell he was utterly taken aback by my revelation. He lost his composure for a fraction of a second, then he was in control of himself again. ‘I see,’ he said, and sat up. ‘What can you tell me?’
Over the next half hour or so, I told Maria all that I knew about David Coleman Headley. I told him about how David and I had been very close friends, and how over the course of a year and a half we had met several times. I told him how I had helped David with his diet. And I told Maria that I had been introduced to David by my long-time friend Vilas Warak.
Which was when Maria chose to attack Vilas. ‘You introduced them?’ he asked Vilas sharply.
‘Yes, sir.’ Vilas sounded nervous as hell.
‘Kidhar mila usko?’ said Maria, even more sharply.
‘Ji sir, Moksh gym mein.’ Vilas was trembling now.
‘Kabhi uska ghar gaya?’
Vilas started at Maria’s harsh tone. ‘N-n-n-nahin, sir.’
‘Ghar pe nahin gaya?’ It was almost a shout this time. I realized Maria was intimidating Vilas.
‘H-h-h-haan, sir, gaya …’
Maria frowned at the guy menacingly. ‘Pehle bola nahin gaya, phir bola gaya, kaunsa hai? Sach bolo!’
Vilas was now staring at Maria, muttering gibberish out of fright.
The cop turned to me. ‘Tell your friend to tell me the truth, otherwise things will really not go well for him.’
Vilas was crying now, tears rolling down his cheeks. It was an incongruous sight—as if the incredible Hulk was sitting in front of me, crying.
‘Come on, man. Bata de abhi sahab ko jo bhi hai,’ I told Vilas. Then taking pity on him, I turned to Maria. ‘Sir, I think he is too intimidated by you.’
I had read enough about crime to know that was exactly what Maria was doing. I also knew that he was not going to stop. With my support and a little bit of coaxing, and with Maria’s bullying, Vilas started talking. He gave Maria everything, from his home and office addresses, the places where he had met David Headley, everything.
Finally, Maria seemed satisfied. He turned back to me and said, ‘Okay, Rahul. You must realize that this is quite an important input that you have given me. I need to brief my officers and get them on this immediately. In the meantime, why don’t you and Vilas wait for a while outside? Would you like something to eat or drink? Maybe coffee?’
Both of us declined his offer. I was more than happy to leave his office. My conscience was clear, my shoulders felt less heavy. As the two of us came out of Maria’s office, the same underling took us to the adjoining room, where we sat quietly, waiting, not speaking.
After a while, the orderly came back and signalled to us that Maria wanted to meet us again. We went back into his office and saw that there was another man with him. Maria introduced him as Deputy Commissioner of Police (DCP) Nisar Tamboli.
Soon after, Tamboli and Vilas left on a recce of Moksh
and David’s address in Mumbai. I was left in the charge of ACP Ashok Durhape. I could see that the man found it hard to believe I was the Rahul the entire police force had been chasing after; he seemed a little disappointed that it hadn’t turned out to be a far bigger celebrity. We started talking, and he confessed to me, after having scrutinized me from head to toe, that he too was a bodybuilder. We chatted for a while, and then he got a call, clearly with instructions about what to do with me.
Immediately after disconnecting the call, ACP Durhape said that it was time for me to leave. However, he had been instructed to take me away through the rear exit of the building. As we came out of the building, he led me to a Toyota Qualis police vehicle with tinted windows. I realized that the cops did not want the media to get a whiff of what was going on just yet.
We didn’t speak much on the drive to the police club. When we reached, I saw that Vilas was already there, sitting in DCP Tamboli’s car, while the cop himself was outside, speaking on the phone. ACP Durhape signalled to me to say that the day was over, and I could leave. So I got down from his car, and walked towards the DCP. The man had noticed me coming and walked forward, holding the phone.
‘It’s good that you are here, Rahul,’ he said. ‘Mr Maria is on the phone and he would like to speak with you.’
I put the phone to my ear and said hello. Maria’s voice came drifting across the line. ‘Rahul, don’t worry. I’ve taken care of everything. You just make sure that you don’t talk about this to anyone. I’m speaking with the people in Delhi, everything has been sorted out, and all you have to do is to make sure that your phone is switched off for the next couple of days.’
HEADLEY AND I Page 5