The first such instance dates back to when I was in Class 10 at Learners’ Academy. I had always been a slow learner, which frustrated my teachers no end. Ultimately, they decided to throw me out of the school. They wanted a good overall percentage for the school in the board exams so that they could flaunt it and get more students. Since I had failed a couple of times, and was a little slow on the academic uptake, they didn’t want to take a risk with me, in case I didn’t perform well and brought down the collective percentage of the school. The result: I was expelled.
There was absolutely no need then for Mr Bhatt to come to the school raging like a bull and confront my teacher and give her a piece of his mind. It was more than ten years ago and I was very young, but his stinging words to the teacher still ring in my ear. Mr Bhatt, or maybe I should say Dad, first yelled at the teacher saying that a gross injustice was being done to me. ‘As a teacher, you’re supposed to be compassionate and nurturing, but what you’re doing will ruin his career!’ he shouted.
And then he said something that I shall never forget, and which still gives me a warm feeling. Dad said, ‘You know what? You can rusticate Rahul if you want to, but it won’t be his loss, it will be yours.’
My father’s words and the emotional support he gave me during this time amazed me. I still remember exactly how he looked that day, glaring eyes and face flushed with anger and outrage as he kept gesticulating and shouting at my teacher. That was the first time I saw my father stand up for me—against a school that was being unfair to a young child.
I was both happy and confused; happy because I saw that he had come forward to fight an injustice against me, his son, and confused because I had never seen him support me before and had thought that he would never do so. This episode at least should have remained in my mind, and should have given me pause whenever I thought ill of him. But alas, childhood can be cruelly unwise!
This was not the only time that Mr Mahesh Bhatt bailed me out of a tricky situation. There were some other instances as well, some of them quite major. There was the time when I beat up the actor Ranvir Shorey and almost killed him because he had been mean to Pooja. My blows were so powerful and Ranvir was in such bad shape that he had to be hospitalized for a significant period of time. I was arrested. I was afraid that I would have to spend my entire life in prison because of what I had done, but again Mr Mahesh Bhatt stepped in and showed his paternal side. He spoke to me at length, found out exactly what had happened, and ensured that I was kept out of jail and that the controversy was not blown out of proportion. How many fathers would have gone to such lengths, I wonder.
In retrospect, I believe there were many such instances when he came to my rescue. He may not have been with me in my happier moments, but he was always there when I was in trouble.
And of course, he stood by me in my biggest battle yet—the David Headley case. He showed me that he could take responsibility for me after all, and that he had never really deserted me. I shudder to think what would have happened if I had not been Mahesh Bhatt’s son. They would have treated me in the same manner that they did poor Vilas. The cops almost broke him and caused so much emotional trauma that he even contemplated committing suicide. I had to keep him safe and functional, and make sure that he did not pop a pill or put a gun to his head or jump in front of a train in his desperation and terror. Of course, it would probably have been far worse for him had Mahesh Bhatt not been involved in my case, and by extension, his too.
Dad didn’t spare any means to try and ensure that Vilas and I weren’t mistreated. He took the battle right to the NIA, the IB and the Crime Branch, going to the extent of taking on Home Minister P. Chidambaram and even the Prime Minister’s Office. He did it with such aplomb that everyone understood that they would not be able to book either of us as an accomplice of Headley until and unless they had concrete evidence, which of course they never had, as both Vilas and I were innocent.
I was impressed by the scathing letter my father wrote to Chidambaram. He told the minister that it was I who had gone to the police, it wasn’t as though as though the security agencies had cracked the code themselves. ‘… my son came out like a true patriot and helped the agencies with their investigation, without which they would not have had most of the information that they have now. Instead of using this opportunity to publicly laud these two young men, which would then, in turn, encourage the rest of civil society to do likewise, they are, through their silence, allowing the media to hint at complicity in these men, and to brick by brick demolish the integrity and reputation that we carry in society today,’ my father wrote. ‘Is this how India chooses to reward its true patriots, who go to unimaginable lengths to assist its agencies?’
Finally, Dad’s parting shot in the letter came straight from the heart. ‘In this war against terrorism, I am with you, but are you with me?’ he asked Chidambaram.
My father’s letter to Prime Minister Manmohan Singh was less scathing, but equally hard-hitting. Speaking about how the investigating agencies conveniently kept quiet about the fact that we had ourselves gone to them with information, Dad wrote, ‘Is this how India rewards its civil society when it risks everything to stand up for its honour and security? Sir, when those who are vested with authority and power practise injustice and resort to these kinds of games, they devastate the faith of the common man in those institutions that he should be holding in the highest esteem.’
I was amazed to see the extent of my dad’s influence, so much so that Dr Singh, who was en route to an international summit, actually replied within twenty-four hours to my father’s letter, assuring him that no injustice would be done to me, and that Vilas and I would not be harassed or victimized by the agencies.
I feel now that it is only because of Dad’s spirited fight on my behalf that the government agencies did not try to get to me by force or by fabricating evidence. It seems to me that in some of the recent cases in the news, innocent people have been framed and arrested by the police. For that matter, imagine the situation of the two men, Fahim Ansari and Sabahuddin Ahmed, Ajmal Aamir Kasab’s co-accused, who were booked on charges of drawing maps for the Pakistani terrorists. It is strange that no one thought to question that in an era of Google maps and Google Earth and satellite imagery, why would those two men go to the trouble of drawing maps on paper? Unfortunately, such questions are not asked any more. Similarly, they might easily have booked me in the Headley case because by that time, in this country at least, my name had become intricately linked with his.
In fact, it wasn’t just my name that was being connected with David Headley. Such coincidences were observed elsewhere in the world as well. But Rahul was synonymous with India, as was evident from the emails that Headley exchanged with his handlers in Pakistan, where they talked about missions in Rahul City. This ‘Rahul City’ was the code for India, and the terrorists were discussing missions that they could execute in the future.
Despite all this, and probably because of my father’s fight and support for us, the NIA guys only took statements from Vilas and me and left us alone. Without him, they would probably have arrested us for interrogation by now.
My father’s victory was complete the day the NIA filed a chargesheet in the David Headley case, without citing me as a witness; it proved that Dad had never really abandoned me. I looked at him in a new light, and thought that perhaps his professional compulsions and domestic problems had led him to not pay enough attention to me during my growing-up years, but during crises, he had always been beside me and had always extended his help.
He was still by my side when I got a threat from the gangster Ravi Pujari, who said that he would bump me off because I was ‘terrorist Headley’s friend’. Dad took the threat seriously, and immediately called me and spoke to me. He then made a few phone calls to the police, and ensured that the cops provided me with security cover. I was given a gun-toting escort to accompany me round the clock.
It is with a lighter heart that I can now admit
and confess that despite all the disagreements and disputes that I have had with my father, he has actually been a rock-solid source of support and strength throughout my life, especially in bad times.
I think I should apologize to him one of these days, and make up with him and try to get him to be a permanent part of my life. Maybe that way, I shall have someone to look up to, in times of crises but also someone to share the joys of my life with.
TWENTY
Behera put down the pen with which he was making notes. He had heard enough to make him sick. This man in front of him, he thought, was a maniac. Thank God they had stopped him in time. Who knows how much more havoc and misery Headley would have caused if he had gone unchecked and undetected.
But Headley was still speaking. There was more to come.
My plan was ready, and all I had to do was to convince Pasha that I too was ready. But when we met, he told me to wait, because I would have to tell the Al Qaeda people myself. They were the ones I had to convince, he told me.
And so it was that I travelled to Waziristan again. It was a matter of great pride and honour for me to meet Ilyas Kashmiri for the second time. I could never thank Allah enough for what he had given me, for how far I had come and how much I had grown. I was actually meeting these top personalities who were really close to Allah and were doing such brilliant work in the field of jehad across the world.
It was Pasha again who took me to meet Kashmiri. By now, my respect for him had grown enormously, it exceeded what I felt for Sajid Mir and Major Iqbal and others from the LeT with whom I had interacted so far. Pasha had his finger in so many pies. And I was constantly amazed by how well connected he was, and the sheer number of people he tapped to get his work done.
When I met Ilyas Kashmiri to discuss the attack strategy, I realized that, like me, he too had been busy designing a plan. We had to ensure that what we did would rock the world. In fact, we had to do it in a much bigger way than the 26/11 Mumbai attacks. It had to be bigger, more sensational, even more shocking than 9/11. We had to ensure that what we did would be a lesson for everyone, and that nobody would take Islam lightly ever again. Of course, our anger and hatred stemmed from the insulting caricatures of Islamic leaders, but it went far deeper than that. With one stroke, we had to pre-empt similar violations in the future.
To this end, Ilyas Kashmiri too had his orders: make this attack deadly, frightening, and gruesome beyond all imagination. He told us that the chieftains of the Al Qaeda—he emphasized that it was the chieftains, the elders—wanted the attacks to not only produce fear in everyone, but also make it impossible for the common man to step out on the street without fearing for his life. I could not figure out who these elders were, though; was Kashmiri talking about al-Zawahiri or Amir Osama or somebody else? Whoever they were, Kashmiri clearly respected their word and, seeing his acquiescence, so did I.
Kashmiri told us his plan. It was brilliant, as it fed on both psychological fear and actual physical shock. First, we would have to lay siege to the Jyllands-Posten office and cut off everyone there from the outside world. That itself would create panic as no one would know what kind of horrors were being perpetrated inside.
Second, take everyone hostage and let the world know that the lives of hundreds of innocents were in our hands. That would create fear, and would get the entire world to pay attention to what we were doing.
Third: create debilitating shock. Kashmiri said that none of the hostages would be allowed to live. Each and every one of them would be beheaded, and the heads thrown, one after the other, out of the window, onto the street below. The security forces outside would pick them up one by one, and the television channels would relay all of this live, across the world. It was a foolproof way of creating shock, outrage and panic, and when the world saw the devastation we had caused, it would realize the power and resources we had at our disposal and what we were capable of.
The best part of the plan, we knew, was that if we managed to behead and throw out onto the street the heads of at least ten people, the entire world would come begging to us on its knees to stop what we were doing; they would be willing to accept any and every condition that we set.
I was awestruck at the audacity of Kashmiri’s grand plan. It was sheer genius! Of course, at some point, our actions inside the newspaper office would be met with brute force by the security personnel, yet the man was ready and willing to sacrifice everything he had and more for Islam. This spurred me on, and I said that I too had a humble suggestion to contribute.
It was something I had thought of earlier, without being certain that I could take it through to the end. But hearing Kashmiri’s plan and having him listen to me with such rapt attention gave me the courage I needed.
I said that this time I was willing to be a fidayeen. I was prepared to die for Islam.
At my words, both Kashmiri and Pasha were taken aback for a few moments, and then I saw that they were looking at me with newfound respect and appreciation. This egged me on.
I told them that I would be a suicide bomber. I said that I would strap bombs around my torso and blow myself up in order to gain martyrdom and cause maximum damage to the enemies of Islam.
We might be able to kill each and every person inside that building, but it wouldn’t be enough, I said, not in my eyes at least. Once everyone was dead, why not bring the whole edifice down? Why not reduce to rubble and completely annihilate the place where the name of Islam had been dragged through mud? It would be a symbol of destruction, a warning never to underestimate the power of Islam. And to achieve that, I would gladly take on the mantle of a suicide bomber.
I saw that Kashmiri was looking at me quizzically. I told him that I knew my shahadat would be greatly appreciated by jehadis everywhere, and my deed, my faith and my martyrdom would encourage other youth to lay down their lives for Islam. What I was proposing to do would give me glory, yes, but more importantly, it would bring glory to the name of Islam.
Finally, they were all convinced that I was serious. Kashmiri smiled, came forward and patted my back, then hugged me tightly. I saw that he appreciated what I was planning to do. Both he and Pasha kept saying mubarak. Yes, I thought to myself, this appreciation would definitely reach the ears of the elders of the Al Qaeda. And someday soon I would be hailed as a hero by all my brothers across the world.
There was one final thing I had to take care of. If I was going to do this, if I was going to give up my life, I needed to make sure that my assets were handled and distributed properly and my family looked after. I had to make my will, and for that, there was only one person I could turn to: Tahawwur Rana.
I wrote to him to say that, going by current planning, I wasn’t going to make it out of there alive. I told him what to do in such a situation.
I used codes, not names. I told Rana I wanted to get M2 (Faiza) to Canada as soon as possible. Until then, he was to regularly send her $350 through Abdur Rehman Pasha. There was always a chance that Rana’s number might be tracked by intelligence agencies if he spoke to M2 himself, so it was imperative that he only communicate with her through Pasha. And after she got her visa to Canada, I told Rana, he should give her $6,000 and a ticket.
I didn’t know how to handle the matter with M1 (Shazia) as clearly though, and I told Rana that he would have to sit down with her and figure out when she should return home. He would have to use his best judgement.
I also wanted my sons to get into Aicthison after their Hifz (memorizing the entire Holy Quran), and asked Rana to see if he could work it out.
Finally, I gave him a list of all my properties and their worth, including my shops in Dubai, plots of land in Pakistan, Gharo, and my father’s house. I owned 60 per cent of that house, and I told Rana I wanted my sons to keep it at any cost.
My slate was clean. I had done everything, ironed out all issues and doled out everything I owned.
I was getting ready for shahadat.
TWENTY-ONE
In Greek, the word hyp
ocrite means actor, and Headley was both— an actor par excellence and a hypocrite to the core. The man had played with my emotions and cheated me, but it wasn’t just me he had done this to. He had scorned each and every person who had come into his life, whether friend, foe, family or complete stranger.
Headley was a mercenary. He wasn’t loyal to anyone, not even to his women. He married four women and cheated on each one. He had his masters in the US—the FBI, the CIA and the DEA—but he double-crossed them as well. He was a Pakistani, but he behaved like an American. And when he took on an American name, he was actually an operative working for the Lashkar. When he came to India, he behaved like an American but was actually a Pakistani. It was as if the man was Ravana personified, with ten heads and ten different faces.
I have not been able to decode Headley to this day. He had too many faces. Perhaps this is the reason why the Americans failed to understand him; neither did the Pakistanis. To the latter, he was just someone who helped see their dastardly designs through till the end.
I had read somewhere that people who turn to terrorism generally come from broken families. They don’t get enough parental love and compassion, and ultimately turn to the path of violence, so-called jehad. Of course, this does not mean that everyone who comes from a broken family will become a terrorist, but it does imply that almost every terrorist comes from a broken home, where the father ill-treated them and did not give them the friendship and love that they craved. This is why, in search of some kind of bonding and mentoring, they seek refuge in the company of other men, and hardcore terrorists manipulate their emotions and push them towards violence and crime.
HEADLEY AND I Page 17