My father probably wanted me to let bygones be bygones and look towards the future. I don’t know how he can live with the past, but the sensitive, emotional man I am, I don’t think I will be able to do it.
My father didn’t pressurize me into starring in The Blue Film, and seemed to have agreed with my decision to stay away from the project. I think he was really keen to launch me in that movie, but he respected my decision. I told him that I would wait for another break, another good movie that he might think of casting me in. Years went by, but a second offer from my father never came.
It was my sister Pooja who gave me a shot at Bollywood. By 2001-2002, Pooja had started producing movies. It was around this time that she came to me and offered me a role in a movie that was to be called The Suicide Bomber.
By then, the 9/11 attack had happened, and the world had changed, pretty much for the worse, I think. There was an anti-Muslim feeling everywhere, even in Bollywood. Films that appeared to be sympathetic to Muslims or to terrorists and tried to analyse their motives, the angst or the compulsion of Muslims that made them take to terrorism, bombed at the box office.
One of these movies was Dhokha, starring Kashmiri actor Muzammil Ibrahim and Tulip Joshi. In the film, Muzammil is a police officer who does not know that his wife Tulip is a Kashmiri militant, a suicide bomber. When she dies in a suicide bombing, he realizes why she had taken to terrorism and why Muslims are forced into terrorism and that they don’t do it by choice. The movie had bombed so badly that, in Pooja’s words, the only one who came to watch was a crow.
This deterred producers from making a movie called Suicide Bomber, which was based on a similar premise and would have been sympathetic towards the cause of suicide bombers and terrorists. As my father put it, ‘Even the miyan populace from Bhendi Bazaar does not want to see such movies.’
So the movie was shelved and my second chance at a foray into Bollywood was lost.
I finally made peace with the fact that my father couldn’t do anything about my career, though if he really wanted to, he could have given me the push every newcomer needs. Look at Kunal Khemu, who has found a place in the industry thanks to Mr Bhatt. Think of Emraan Hashmi. My father is single-handedly responsible for making him the star that he is today. Why can’t Mr Bhatt show the same faith in me? Even my sister! She too was given a break in his movies, and my father later on consistently ensured that in many of his movies like Daddy, Dil Hai Ki Maanta Nahiin, Sadak, Junoon and many others, my sister figured prominently. Why couldn’t he pay the same attention to his own son?
My mom asked him once whether he was averse to casting me in any of his movies because he was scared that I may not be able to act. To this, he had said insolently, ‘I can direct even a stone; absolute nobodies have turned into stars. I have no fear.’
So, am I worse than a stone, a nobody? Am I perhaps not really dear to him? Or does he hold a grudge against me because I turned him down once?
ELEVEN
I was no longer Daood Gilani. That man, that identity, existed only in my mind, and in the minds of the people I was closest to—my friends in Pakistan. I was now David Coleman Headley. As an American, I hoped to have access to a lot more things than I had as Daood Gilani. I could use the identity of a white American to my advantage; in fact, even my friends would benefit from it.
I was now ready, trained and mentally prepared, to visit India to conduct recces for the purpose of jehad. I promised myself that I would do a brilliant job, and do it in such a way that every Muslim in the world, especially my Pakistani masters, would be happy and pleased with me.
I had grown to admire the LeT, which had such a fantastic setup, and whose reach and logistics were simply amazing. I found more proof of this very soon. The LeT men had delved into my background, using all the information I had given them, and had found out about my school friend Tahawwur Rana. I don’t know how they managed to do it, but one day, Sajid Mir and Major Iqbal came to me and told me that they had contacted Rana and that he was on board; Rana had agreed to help us by providing some much-needed cover.
By then, that is September 2005, Rana had, with a man called Raymond Sanders, established a flourishing business called First World Immigration Services Inc. in Chicago’s Devon Avenue. They provided papers and documents and helped people in other countries, primarily in the Indian subcontinent, to immigrate to the US for a fee. Their office was in a predominantly Asian area in Chicago, and they were doing very well. Rana was not an American but a Canadian national. Over and above that, he was a Pakistani, and this is what the LeT leveraged to get him over to their side.
In the interrogation room, his face not betraying any of his thoughts, Behera made a mental note of this. According to David Headley, Tahawwur Rana was part of the conspiracy and had been as instrumental in executing the Mumbai attack as David himself. But Behera was not prepared to blindly believe everything that this self-assured man in front of them said.
Of course, he told himself, this did not mean that Rana was innocent of everything. Oh no! But it did mean that the LeT may have used a lot of pressure on Rana. Maybe they threatened to kill his family in Pakistan, or maybe they said that it wouldn’t be too difficult for Rana to help them. But all this was speculation. Right now, Behera knew that David Headley’s words were far more important.
My Lashkar handlers told Rana that all he would have to do was to provide finance and cover to me. Rana knew that of all the things they could have asked him to do, this was by far the least dangerous. All he would have to do was to maintain that I was a partner in his immigration business and that I was helping him expand his business in Mumbai. He might have to send me some money from time to time, and he did that too, once, when I had to collect it from a bank near the Trident Hotel.
Rana’s involvement provided me with a failsafe alibi. If I was ever picked up by the Indian police, and grilled on why I was visiting India so frequently and making video recordings, all I would have to say was that I was a tourist who had just opened an immigration office in Mumbai and needed to establish my business. The videos were also for this purpose. It was the perfect cover. But it almost came to nothing because of a near-fatal error.
Rana had already got my papers in order and they had been processed. He had applied for a visa to the Indian embassy, and it was not long before I had it in my hand. I was ready to go to India— to Mumbai.
Surprisingly, there were quite a few errors in my passport and visa that nobody noticed, certainly not the Indian agencies. My father’s name was not mentioned in the passport, and the visa in the name of David Coleman Headley had the father’s name as Salim Gilani. But nobody questioned this. That’s why I say that Indians are chutiyas.
Despite himself, Behera’s jaw dropped. Until now, Headley had been speaking in flawless American English. But hearing the swear word in Hindi, Behera couldn’t but be surprised. He didn’t need to look at his colleagues to know that they were as shocked as he was.
‘Do you know what that word means, Mr Headley?’ Behera asked.
Headley laughed. ‘Of course I know what it means! I am a Pakistani, don’t forget. I speak Hindi and Urdu, and I know all kinds of expletives in these languages. I don’t know why you are surprised.’
Behera had regained his composure by now. He nodded and motioned to Headley to continue.
My social security number was the same as before. The number on the passport was the same as the number that had been given to Daood Gilani. The Indians would have spotted this had they cross-checked the information. But they never did, and I was welcomed into India with open, unsuspecting arms.
Mumbai was chosen as my destination after a lot of discussion. The other cities that were considered were Kolkata, Delhi, Bangalore, Pune, Nagpur, Ahmedabad and Hyderabad, but in the end, the financial capital of India won as our primary target. Crippling Mumbai would have a far greater impact.
I landed at Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport on 14 September 2006.
Rana had arranged for me to be picked up by a man called Bashir, who was one of his contacts in Mumbai. Rana subsequently got Bashir to go to the US. I later learned that Bashir was deported back to India a few months after he landed in the US because his documents were not in order.
Bashir drove me to south Mumbai, to Hotel Outram near Churchgate. It was a semi-luxurious hotel meant for budget travellers. Mr Kripalani, the owner, was a very nice guy. I stayed there and got my money changed from US dollars to Indian rupees by a waiter called Abdullah. Everyone at the hotel was very helpful. Mr and Mrs Kripalani were hospitality personified.
I had been instructed not to use laptops or any personal electronic items that might be traced back to me or, worse, to the Lashkar-e-Taiba in Pakistan. So, on my very first day in Mumbai, I went in search of a public Internet café. I found one, called Reliance Cyber Café, near Churchgate, near the hotel, and started writing emails to Tahawwur Rana and my Lashkar masters. I was supposed to send all my findings through emails to [email protected], which was my reporting email address, and to Sajid Mir as well as Major Iqbal. My own email was [email protected]. I have always believed that the email user ID shouldn’t be so simple that it can be traced just by running unsophisticated search programmes. Also, intelligence agencies would be hard-pressed to find out what I was reporting about and who I was emailing, especially if they didn’t know the email addresses.
I stayed in India till 14 December 2006. During this trip, I made several rounds of Mumbai, conducting recces of various places like the Mantralaya and the Gateway of India. I even went to the Taj Mahal Hotel and the Trident Hotel. I had never been to the city before, and I found it bustling with life and energy. I wondered what would happen if we Pakistanis were successful in bombing it and causing major havoc. The thought was invigorating.
I returned to the US via Dubai after this first trip. Soon after, on 21 February 2007, I made a second trip to India, following the instructions of my LeT masters. This time, too, I checked into the same place, Hotel Outram, and stayed till 15 March. I again conducted recces of as many places as I could think of, to try and identify potential targets for the LeT. By now, I knew a lot more about the city and how it worked. I decided that the best course of action would be to befriend people and make some contacts. It would also help to have a local show me around the city.
I had no idea how I would casually approach and befriend people, but acting on instructions, I set up an office in Tardeo AC Market, by the name of First World Immigration. This completed the cover that Rana had provided me with. I also hired a secretary whose name was Mahrukh Bharucha.
I then decided to join a gym. From my prison days, I had learned that gyms are a great place to meet and make friends. So I went looking for decent gymnasiums and found one by the name of Moksh Wellness quite close to my office. The word ‘moksh’ means salvation. Chutiya Indians! They think that a gym can help you attain salvation!
I heard that the gym belonged to a celebrity, Pritish Nandy. This could come in handy. I could introduce myself as someone who worked out in Pritish Nandy’s gym. It would surely break the ice and help strike up a conversation. So I went to the gym one day and told them that I wanted to join. They were very eager; after all, I was a white man wanting to sign up as a member. It is typical for the white man to be accorded all courtesies.
While I was filling up forms and completing the formalities, the man at the counter asked me for a photograph. I told him that I didn’t have one, wondering what would happen next. I was surprised to find that he didn’t insist on one. It’s quite clear, isn’t it? You can get away with anything in India. Had it been the US or any other country, they would never have allowed anyone to join a gym, or any other institution for that matter, without a photograph, especially if you were a foreigner.
I divided my time between my reconnaissance missions and my workouts. Soon, I was a known face at the gym; I could tell that all the instructors liked me and knew that I liked working out. One of those instructors was a man called Vilas Warak.
Vilas was the first person in Mumbai that I managed to befriend. Very soon, we became good friends. He was a very sincere and happy-go-lucky sort of person, and was also very helpful. He was serious about bodybuilding. He once told me that he had participated in some bodybuilding competition and won a major title. I was appropriately impressed, which I saw he liked. As I continued to work out, I kept a watch on him and how he dealt with other customers. I realized that he was really good at his job.
One day, while we were idly chatting as I was working out, I found out that he was a Shiv Sainik. Shiv Sena! Memories from my training stirred in my head as I remembered the videos I had seen, and I could feel the rage welling up in me. I knew that my job might become slightly easier if I cultivated him as a friend. I could find out more about the Sena, and maybe they would become one of the targets.
I started taking a keen interest in Vilas. Soon, our friendship expanded beyond the gym, and we were going out to coffee shops, where we would talk about a lot of things. He was delighted at my interest in the Shiv Sena, and I found out a lot about his party from him. I thought that if I cultivated him in the right manner, maybe I would be able to work my way through to Bal Thackeray. If it was up to me, I would make sure that the Sena’s headquarters were bombed.
When my Pakistani handlers found out about my new friend through my regular reports via email, they were very excited, and I was informed that I should continue to cultivate Vilas Warak.
One day, I escorted Vilas to a bodybuilding competition. I picked him up and we went to Shivaji Mandir. These Indians have a temple for everybody! Apart from their innumerable major gods and goddesses and all kinds of deities, they have even set up a temple for a Maratha warrior. Left to myself, I would have bombed each and every one of these temples.
The temple brought to mind another video that I had been shown in which hordes of bearded, saffron-clad sadhus stood on some bridge in Varanasi. It was a perfect example of how misguided the Indians are. I told myself that if an explosion could be orchestrated at one of these crowded places in Varanasi, it would cause maximum impact across the world.
The venue was extremely crowded by the time Vilas and I reached. At first we mingled with the crowd and Vilas introduced me to some people; I noticed that I was the only white man present. I watched everything around me, though the function itself was very boring and extremely badly organized.
It was at this event that something happened to make my job much more exciting and potentially far-reaching. Vilas introduced me to a young man called Rahul Bhatt. He was the son of Mahesh Bhatt, one of India’s most famous film directors, and known to be sympathetic to Muslims. Rahul seemed to be a very nice guy, a young chap of around twenty-three or twenty-four. It was apparently he who had organized tickets for the event for Vilas and me. He sounded very sincere and very interested in me. I shook hands with him warmly, and I could tell that he appreciated my strong grip; his too was very strong. We hit it off with each other almost immediately.
That night, I went back to my hotel and called Tahawwur Rana to report my findings to him. It had been decided that I would not call Pakistan from India, as my handlers had told me that all phone lines between India and Pakistan were under surveillance. So I would only email them, using as cryptic a language as possible to avoid any slip-ups. Since this could be quite tedious, I would also call Rana directly and report to him in words that were far clearer and more precise. Calling the US was less of a risk than calling Pakistan. Rana would then pass on all that I had said to Sajid Mir and Major Iqbal and relay their instructions back to me. I remember him always referring to Major Iqbal as balaa, meaning ‘calamity’ in Urdu.
The biggest problem I had during this Mumbai trip was that I was forced to talk to Rana in English. He and I had grown up together and always used to speak to each other in Urdu or Punjabi, which are colourful languages. But now, we spoke in English and that too very formally. We even referred to
each other as Mr Rana and Mr Headley. It was quite jarring and sometimes very irritating, but I had to stick to it in case the Indians were listening in.
I left Mumbai on 15 March 2007 and went to Lahore via Dubai. My masters were making sure that there were no links between me and Pakistan, nothing to make the Indians suspicious. I stayed in Lahore for five days, during which I met Sajid Mir a couple of times.
Sajid was very happy with my report, and he especially liked two things: that I was trying to gain access to the Shiv Sena and that I had met Rahul Bhatt. He underlined the importance of developing my relationships with Vilas Warak and Rahul Bhatt, because of their links to the Shiv Sena and to Bollywood.
I returned to India on 20 March 2007, armed with similar objectives as before, as well as new ones. In keeping with Sajid’s instructions, I decided to take my friendship with Rahul Bhatt a step forward. Rahul, I realized, was not a very smart guy, more the sensitive type. I told him that I was excited to have met him, and would love to know more about Bollywood. I also told him and Vilas that I would like to visit the Shiv Sena Bhavan if possible.
I had found two targets, and was getting closer to them.
But my masters had more than just Mumbai in mind. They also wanted me to scour for targets in Delhi. So, in September 2007, I made a trip to Delhi, and from there I went to Pushkar.
HEADLEY AND I Page 10