Black Friday

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  Abdul Razak was extremely conservative and religious. His youngest son was named Isa, the Arabic form of Jesus, the other five after the Old Testament prophets: Suleiman (Solomon), Ibrahim (Abraham), Ayub (Job), Yaqub (Jacob) and Yusuf (Joseph). All the boys were good sportsmen; Suleiman excelled in carrom, Yaqub in squash and badminton, and Mushtaq in cricket.

  Mushtaq’s grit and determination were demonstrated from an early age, especially on the cricket field. There is a story which was legendary in the neighbourhood about an innings he played in 1972, for his school, Beg Mohammed High School at Pydhonie. The team was on the ropes in a match against Anjuman-i-Islam, their traditional rival and champion of every school tournament. Beating the latter was a childhood dream of every Beg Mohammed boy, and Mushtaq, then in the ninth standard, was not going to let this opportunity pass. There was only one problem: he was the twelfth man.

  Anjuman-i-Islam batted first, and notched up 142 runs. All of Beg Mohammed’s six recognized batsmen were out for ninety-one runs. By this time, one of the team members had fallen ill and Mushtaq was allowed to bat. He requested the captain to allow him go in next, and the latter acceded to his request as the situation seemed hopeless.

  When Mushtaq reached the crease, his team needed fiftytwo runs to win. Facing him was Nazim, the most cunning fast bowler in the opposing team. Mushtaq missed his first ball, and the next four. On the last ball of the over, a full toss, he hit a six. Inspired, he started a mighty attack on the opposition bowling, though wickets at the other end continued to fall.

  Mushtaq batted like a man possessed. When the team needed only seven runs to win he was hit on the nose by one of Nazim’s balls, collapsed and was carried off the field. Evening was setting in and the umpires suggested a draw be declared. But, his nose swathed in a crude bandage, Mushtaq went out to bat again with only one over left to go.

  He could not score off the first four balls. But as Nazim bowled the fifth, Mushtaq heaved at it with all his strength. It was another sixer.

  One ball, one run. It was a slower delivery and Mushtaq missed it. Overcome with horror, he suddenly realized that he was surrounded by jubilant crowds. It had been a wide; they had got the one run needed for victory.

  The family lived in Mohammed Ali Road until 1978, and then shifted to another, even smaller, tenement in northwest Bombay, in a fishermen’s colony in Mahim. Abdul Razak did not hold a full-time job, and the older boys started working at an early age. While living in the Kadiya building, Suleiman had found employment as a salesman while Mushtaq worked as an apprentice clerk in the community’s bank, the Memon Cooperative Bank, at their branch in Byculla.

  After he started working, Mushtaq’s belligerence grew. Asked by the manager of the bank to fetch tea for a visitor, Mushtaq retorted that he was not his servant. As the manager showered abuses at him, Mushtaq slapped him and the manager fell down, unconscious. Amazingly, the bank asked Mushtaq to tender an apology and resume work. But Mushtaq was adamant. ‘What apology?’ he asked his father. ‘If they want, let the manager apologize.’

  His foray into the underworld began in a very small way in the early 1980s. The family was still desperately poor. Near their house in Mahim was Makhdum Shah Baba’s dargah where Sunni Muslims from all over Maharashtra came to pray for favours. It was said that those who served the saint would receive fame and fortune. The shrine was also popular with the denizens of Bombay’s underworld. At this period, the main operations of the underworld were in smuggling and matka. There were frequent gang wars over territorial rights, and the seizing of one another’s contraband goods.

  Among the dargah’s regular visitors were the smuggler brothers Mustafa Dossa, nicknamed Mustafa Majnun for his romantic proclivities, and Mohammed Dossa. They had been established in this line of work since the time of Haji Mastan, the almost legendary smuggler. They were looking for a reliable chauffeur, and somebody in the dargah suggested Mushtaq and described him as very daring. For Mushtaq, desperate for a job, this seemed a godsend.

  His job involved driving the bosses around in fancy cars— Volkswagen, Mercedes and other imported brands that were yet to hit the Indian roads. Within the first month, he earned his employers’ confidence and was entrusted with the job of chauffeuring their Dubai-based superiors whenever they visited Bombay. Legend has it that once Yaqub Bhatti, known as Big Boss, was proceeding towards Bandra when sirens wailed behind them. The police had been tipped off, and were hot in pursuit. Bhatti sat nervous and sweating in the back seat. ‘Do something, drive faster,’ he yelled at Mushtaq.

  Mushtaq, however, seemed undisturbed. He adjusted his rearview mirrors for a better look at the vehicles trailing them, and answered calmly, ‘Yes, sir.’

  Bhatti was surprised by the youth’s composure. ‘Just drop me at the airport; there is a flight for Dubai leaving in another two-and-a-half hours,’ he said in a beseeching tone. He added, ‘If you manage to get me on that plane, I will reward you well.’

  The vehicle dodged and darted past police jeeps in the western suburbs of Bombay. This area was Mushtaq’s turf and he knew it like the back of his hand. Three wireless vans were pursuing the car and for two hours Mushtaq drove like a lunatic. He rammed into autorickshaws, bicycles and motorcycles, and fended off the police vans by ducking into narrow one-way lanes from the wrong direction. The pursuing police van would stop in its tracks and ask another van to go from a different route to position itself at the other end of the lane. But Mushtaq would never drive up to the end, instead he would swing into smaller lanes and gallis. Had the police used motorcycles, they might have intercepted him. By turning into one-way lanes at the wrong end, Mushtaq effectively cut down on the number of vehicles trailing him and finally managed to get the entire police squad off his back to reach the airport in the nick of time. Bhatti was the last passenger to board the flight.

  Mushtaq abandoned the car and walked back home. The police did not know who the driver was and therefore there were no midnight knocks to bother him.

  Bhatti was very happy. He immediately sent word that Mushtaq should be invited to Dubai. Mushtaq had saved him from the wrath of the Bombay police, and the prospect of rotting for years in an Indian prison, while the Bombay police drummed up cases against him at their slow pace.

  In Dubai, Mushtaq got a new job. He was now a carrier, a gold carrier. His job was to ferry smuggled gold biscuits, and there was a lot of money in this kind of venture. Within a year, Mushtaq was in charge of the smuggling operations from Bombay, much to the dismay of his previous bosses Mustafa Majnun and Mohammed Dossa, who were offended that their superior in Dubai treated a measly driver with so much deference. But nothing could stop Mushtaq’s rise.

  Tiger Memon

  The Memon family was now rich, and in 1985 they shifted to two spacious duplex flats on the fifth and sixth floors of the seven-storey Al-Hussaini building in Mahim. Mushtaq had single-handedly lifted the family out of poverty. He paid for the education of his younger brother, Yaqub, who went on to become a chartered accountant. He also ran an office by the name of Al-Tejarath International, which was destroyed during the December riots.

  The Memon community had not really been aware of Mushtaq’s rise to fame. It was at his wedding that this changed. Mushtaq had been in love with a non-Memon woman, Shabana. Their wedding was solemnized at the famous Sabu Siddique Hall in south Bombay. It was a lavish event that gave the guests an inkling of the rapid rise of Mushtaq Memon. They saluted his enterprise; the means didn’t matter to them. They called his father aside and told him: ‘Rajjubhai, you should be proud of your son. He is the real Tiger.’ Mushtaq was thus re-christened on his wedding day. He was now the Tiger.

  It was this determination to succeed, to overcome the odds that had brought him this far. To the critical meeting in Dubai. The elevator took Tiger to the second floor, to a glass-fronted office where he was guided to the meeting hall, where several known and unknown people waited in the comfortable high-backed chairs.

  Tiger gree
ted the gathering and sat next to Taufiq Jaliawala. The other familiar faces included Shaikh Ahmed, Anis Ibrahim, Haji Umar, Mohammed Dossa, Mustafa Majnun and Sayed Arif. The room was enshrouded in a pall of smoke, giving it a funereal air, further reinforced by the sombre expressions on many faces.

  Taufiq Jaliawala broke the silence. ‘So have you people come to any decision?’

  Nobody responded.

  Enraged, Taufiq launched into a diatribe about the importance of their mission, which prompted a few suggestions.

  ‘How about killing the BJP leader Advani and the Sena chief Bal Thackeray?’ asked a man who seemed to be a Palestinian.

  When others protested that this was impossible to achieve, the man retorted proudly that nothing was impossible for Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) operatives.

  ‘We know that Thackeray’s security has several loopholes. It can be breached whenever we want to snuff his life out. Thackeray and Advani can be killed by just one handshake or one garland. That will be sufficient to dispatch them to the pit of hell.’

  He was interrupted by Shaikh Ahmed. ‘You are assuming that your men can get close to Thackeray and Advani. That is impossible: they will not get anywhere within several kilometres of him,’ he said derisively.

  ‘We have ways and means of doing it, and you people don’t deserve to know them. But if worse comes to worst, we can always buy out one of the policemen around him and pay him fantastic sums to have the job done. Or storm their houses with a truck load of explosives, the way the Amal militia do to Christians in Lebanon.’

  Tiger said, more to himself than to the gathering, ‘Even if Advani and Thackeray can be killed, it will still not solve our problem. The Hindus will turn them into godlike figures and Muslims throughout India will be massacred. No. No. No. This cannot happen.’

  Another Arab who had been silent so far spoke out, his voice brimming with indignation. ‘Non-believers cannot cause any harm to Muslims. We will annihilate them. We will crush them. The entire Islamic world is with us. Injustice will not be tolerated any more.’ He banged the table furiously as he spoke.

  The only one who had the courage to interrupt him was Anis Ibrahim, Dawood Ibrahim’s brother. ‘Are you aware that there are sixty crore Hindus in India? Can you finish them all? Do you think the United Nations will keep quiet? What about India’s mentor, Russia?’

  The discussion continued, occasionally very heated, as various options were raised.

  Shaikh Ahmed spoke up eventually. ‘But can’t we scare the Indian government and the Hindus into submission? The best thing to do will be to turn the tables on the Hindus. If we can intimidate Hindus in such a manner that in the future they will not in their wildest dreams try to subjugate the Muslims ...’

  This thought seemed to appeal to all present, and heads began to bob in agreement. Taufiq clapped his hands and said it was a superb idea. But once again silence descended on the room.

  Tiger spoke up. ‘Bombay is the pride of India, its financial nerve centre. It is also the place where Muslims suffered the most during the riots. Why not display our might and power there? Any attack on Bombay will have international repercussions. The government will be shaken. The world leaders will be shocked. Let us plan to take over Bombay. We can capture Mantralaya, the municipal corporation building and the airport, hold political leaders hostage and cripple the economy. We will draw international attention to the downtrodden Muslims of the country. We will ...’

  Dossa, who sounded impatient and irritated, interrupted, ‘But how can you do it? From where will the money come?’

  ‘Money is no problem,’ Taufiq interjected. ‘But do you think it can be done successfully?’

  ‘With proper planning the CIA has toppled governments and taken over countries. We have to only disrupt one city. I already have a network. We need to fine-tune it further and rope in some committed young people to execute the job,’ Tiger said.

  Suddenly the room was electrified. The glum faces lit up.

  The discussion grew animated.

  3

  The Preparations

  There were two initial steps in the complex operation: first, to secure the arms and armaments and transport them to Bombay, and second, to recruit Muslim youths from Bombay and train them to carry out the bombings. It was felt that only Tiger had the leadership skills and contacts necessary to find the youths, train them, brief them and lead them throughout the mission.

  He also had plenty of experience with smuggling goods to Bombay, and had a well-established network including trusted landing agents. Each landing agent has several landing spots along the coast that he and his gang have exclusive control over. Whenever smuggled goods have to be delivered into Bombay, such landing agents send their men to the high seas to off-load the goods and bring them back to shore.

  One such landing agent was Dawood Phanse, also called Dawood Taklya because of his bald pate. Phanse, now in his sixties, had an unchallenged hold in the dozen or so landing points in Shekhadi and Dighi. These two coastal villages were situated in such a rocky part of the Maharashtra coast that it was difficult to believe that any landing could even take place there, yet despite that these spots were regarded as a gold mine for smugglers. Phanse had consolidated his position by forming a cartel with two other powerful agents of the region: Sharif Abdul Ghafoor Parkar, alias Dadabhai Parkar, from Sandheri village, and Rahim Abbas Karambelkar, alias Rahim Laundrywala, of Srivardhan village. Since the late 1980s the trio were involved in landing silver ingots and other goods for Dawood Ibrahim and later for Tiger.

  On 15 January 1993, Phanse was summoned by Tiger. ‘Some extremely important and sensitive goods are supposed to land,’ Tiger told him, and asked him to personally handle the landing operations. The goods would be shipped from Dubai and would land at Mhasla.

  ‘Who is going to ship the goods?’

  ‘Dawood bhai.’

  ‘How can we make sure that they are Dawood bhai’s goods and not somebody else’s?’ Phanse asked.

  Tiger was famous for his short temper and vitriolic tongue. He frowned at Phanse’s tone but kept himself in check. ‘These goods are approved by Dawood bhai himself.’

  ‘We have no such intimation either from him or through his channels,’ Phanse replied, unabashed. ‘One needs to be careful, the times are bad in Bombay ...’

  ‘What will convince you that the goods belong to Dawood bhai?’ asked Tiger, exasperated.

  ‘Let him phone me and tell me personally or through any such channel,’ Phanse said with finality.

  ‘What if I arrange for you to meet Dawood bhai?’

  ‘Well, in that case you have a deal,’ Phanse bobbed his bald head.

  Tiger arranged for Phanse’s meeting with Dawood in Dubai, and organized a visa for him. On 19 January, Phanse took the Air-India flight from Bombay to Dubai. Tiger himself met the landing agent at the airport. They drove to Hotel Delhi Durbar where Phanse was to stay.

  ‘You will meet Dawood bhai tomorrow,’ said Tiger. ‘I’ll come and pick you up.’

  However, on the following day, Tiger did not show up. Instead he called to say that the meeting with Dawood had been postponed by a day.

  On 21 January, Tiger picked up Phanse from the hotel and took him in a taxi to the White House. Phanse was awe-struck at the sight of the huge house, the likes of which were seldom seen in Bombay. Half-smiling, Tiger said to Phanse as they entered the gates, ‘This is where your Dawood bhai lives.’

  Phanse could only nod. Tiger led him to a room and asked him to wait while he went out to look for Dawood. Phanse sat on the edge of the sofa and fidgeted nervously.

  As the minutes ticked by, Phanse’s nervousness increased. Every little sound made him jump. Suddenly he sensed movement behind him. Both Tiger and Dawood were standing in the room watching him.

  ‘Bhai, salam alaikum, bhai ? Phanse stuttered.

  ‘Wa alaikum as aalam. Kya haal hai, chacha (How is everything)?’ asked Dawood.

 
‘By the grace of Almighty Allah, everything is fine.’

  ‘So what brought you here?’

  Dawood’s directness took Phanse by surprise.

  ‘Nothing ... I mean, I just wanted to ... I mean, meet you ... I told Tiger bhai ... If I can talk to you, he said ... he would arrange the meeting ...’

  ‘You don’t have to explain so much. I thought you wanted some assurance that this is my operation. Be assured that this has my whole-hearted support.’

  ‘But can I ask ... I... just wanted to know—what will be in that cargo?’

  ‘It will have some chemicals. Don’t worry, you’ll be paid handsomely for your services.’

  ‘Chemicals?’

  Dawood was taken aback and enraged because nobody ever dared to question what he said.

  ‘Are you not aware of what the Hindus have done in India?’ he said, gritting his teeth. ‘Don’t you think we have to take revenge for the masjid and the blood of innocent Muslims?’

  ‘Bhai, how ... we ... how?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you do your work, we’ll do our work. Tiger knows everything and has planned everything. Just give him whatever help he needs.’

  That was the end of the meeting. Dawood’s personal assurance was sufficient for Phanse. He returned to Bombay the following day. Dawood’s rage against the infidels had influenced Phanse. He described the meeting to his partners Parkar and Laundrywala. The trio pledged support to Tiger in their assigned task of facilitating the landing of the chemicals at Mhasla-Shekhadi.

  Subsequently Tiger met the three agents and informed them that the goods were supposed to land at Shekhadi at the end of the month or early the following month. They would be informed of the exact dates later. The plan seemed to be progressing smoothly.