Mafia Queens of Mumbai

by Zaidi, Hussain S

  While time had brought about so many changes in our position and in Sapna’s position in the underworld, things remained the same with regard to my feelings for her and vice versa. No doubt we had become very close friends, sometimes I felt we could even read each other’s minds. We quarrelled, we laughed and dined together almost every day. She knew all about the women I slept with and would keep asking me to change my ways. I knew she enjoyed spending time with me—but that’s all it was; there was never the hint of her wanting anything more. She couldn’t think beyond Mehmood.

  I knew that she was aware of my feelings but she continued to feign ignorance. It annoyed me sometimes, and—like anyone would—I too, was reaching a point where I didn’t think I could take it any longer. I was just hoping that it wouldn’t happen soon.

  But it did. Something terrible happened one day, after which she was forced to part ways with me. I admit it was all my fault.

  It was December 1991, at around 2 a.m. I was at home, bored … I hadn’t felt like paying a woman for sex that night. It was just one of those off days when I did not want to have any fun. Such days, however, had only occurred after Sapna came into my life. I guess I wanted to prove to her that I could be faithful.

  I was lying on my couch, listening to some old Hindi songs from the ‘60s on my radio but my mind was on Sapna. I imagined making love to her, placing my lips on her navel and then slowly moving upwards to press her lips against mine and kissing her passionately. I was in some kind of trance and didn’t realise when I had fallen asleep.

  I must have been in a deep sleep when someone started shaking me hurriedly. I opened my eyes and saw Sapna standing before me. She was panting and weeping.

  Sapna had an extra key to my home, as she usually came over early in the morning to prepare breakfast for me. I looked at my watch—it was 2.30 in the morning. My half-drunk glass of whiskey was still lying on the table. Sapna was in a green salwaar-kameez, and her long, silky hair was dishevelled. Her dupatta was also missing.

  ‘So late? What happened?’ I asked, a little dazed.

  ‘A gang of goondas are after me, please help me.’

  ‘But what happened?’ I asked again, looking for a shirt to cover my bare chest.

  ‘I was outside a gambling den, on one of my usual recces. One of them recognised me ...’ she said. ‘I tried to run but they were ten, twelve of them. I managed to come here and I think they saw me enter the building.’

  ‘No one can harm you if I am around. Sit down.’ I put on my shirt, took my German Mauser and asked her to sit quietly. Then, locking my house, I went down to scan the area. I couldn’t find anyone. Perhaps they hadn’t tracked her to my building; in any case, even if they had, I knew they would not have dared to do anything. When I returned inside, Sapna, who was sitting on the chair, still looked terrified.

  ‘Don’t worry, I drove them away,’ I lied.

  ‘Hussain sahib ... I thought they were going to rape me ...’ she said, her hands shaking. I had never seen her so scared.

  I don’t know what happened to me but at that moment, I just took her by the hand, pulled her up from the chair and hugged her. She did not resist, and I thought that she had finally given in to my and her own desire. So I reached around to unzip her kurta with one hand, while, with the other, I made to cup her breast. Sapna realised what was happening and pushed me away so hard, I fell to the ground.

  ‘What the hell are you trying to do?’ she screamed. 1 thought you were my friend! Instead you tried to take advantage of my situation today!’ I don’t think Sapna could believe what I had done.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, lilting myself from the floor, ‘don’t get me wrong. I just lost control ...’

  ‘Control? I always knew you treated women like whores but I thought that you treated me with a bit more respect. I was wrong ...’ Sapna was livid.

  ‘Stop talking rubbish. If I wanted, I could have had you long back ... but I didn’t.’

  ‘You have a mind filled with filth. I should have expected this behaviour from you long ago.’

  Hurt by her stinging words, I said, ‘All these years, it was I who helped you become a somebody. And I have been meaning to tell you what you are actually ... you are just a shrewd, scheming bitch who—’

  Before I could even complete my sentence, Sapna came towards me and slapped me hard across the face. Her eyes had turned red. ‘I don’t think we can ever be together after what happened today. But I will never forget what you have done for me. Khuda hafiz.’

  She walked towards the door, turned the knob and stormed out of my house, slamming the door behind her. I ran behind her, down the building, telling her it was not safe to be out alone at that hour but she ignored me. I watched as she crossed the road, got into a taxi and drove away.

  That was the last time I saw Sapna.

  At first, I did not try and get in touch with her, thinking that she would eventually cool down and forgive my behaviour. But over six months passed and there was absolutely no news from her. All this while, my men kept me updated about her activities and whereabouts, so I knew she was safe. I would be lying, though, if I said that I didn’t miss her every single day of my life. Unfortunately, there was nothing that could be done. If she didn’t want to approach me, there was no way I could go to her.

  Jenabai’s ancestral home in Chunawala Building in Dongri, in its current state. Jenabai first shifted to the first floor of the building at fourteen, when she married Mohammad Shah Darwesh, a small-time businessman, in the early ‘40s. Though she made enough money as an informer and bootlegger, she refused to leave the building and breathed her last here in 1993.

  Haji Mastan’s bungalow, Baitul Suroor, on Peddar Road, where Jenabai brought Mumbai’s warring gangsters together in 1980, in order to have them come to a truce.

  A front page interview of Jenabai Daaruwali in one of the most prominent Urdu newspapers, Akbhar-e-Alam, in 1992, a year before her death.

  Kamathipura 12th Lane, where Gangubai lived during the last few years of her life. Journalists and ministers would come to meet Gangubai here.

  A framed picture of Gangubai, which is seen in most homes and brothels in the red-light area. She is revered like a goddess.

  After Gangubai’s death, busts were made in her memory and installed in Kamathipura, in brothels that were under her jurisdiction.

  Drug baroness Jyoti Adiramlingam controls the drug trafficking network in Reay Road in Central Mumbai with an iron fist. Jyoti used to be part of the infamous troika (Savitri, Jyoti and Papamani) of women, who dominated the narco industry in Mumbai in the early ‘90s. This photograph was procured from Jyoti’s family album by the Narcotics Control Bureau (NCB).

  An old photograph of Mahalaxmi Papamani, sourced from the NCB. Despite several attempts, we were unable to procure a recent picture of her.

  Gangster Abu Salem and Bollywood starlet Monica Bedi (right) seen sharing a lighter moment with friends and family. The couple was eventually arrested in Lisbon on 20 September 2002 for entering Portugal with forged documents.

  These are the photos acquired from the passports of Danish Beg, alias Abu Salem, and Fauzia Beg, alias Monica Bedi. The couple used these names for fake passports, which they later used to travel abroad.

  Asha Gawli, the wife of Hindu don Arun Gawli, who shielded her husband against police machinery and fake encounters on several occasions, is seen appealing to the masses to vote for her husband from the Byculla constituency, before the Maharashtra Legislative Assembly elections in October 2009. (Courtesy: Indian Express, Mumbai)

  Late Shiv Sena corporator Neeta Naik, who convinced and encouraged her electronics graduate husband Ashwin Naik to join the underworld, posing for lensmen inside her flat at Subashnagar, Byculla. In 2000, Ashwin got his henchmen to gun his wife down outside her home. (Courtesy: Mid-Day, Mumbai)

  Sujata Nikhalje, the ambitious wife of self-proclaimed patriotic don Chhota Rajan, walks out of a Maharashtra Control of Organised Crime Act (MCOCA)
court after a hearing. (Courtesy: Mid-Day, Mumbai)

  Padma Poojary, the alleged mastermind behind notorious gangster Ravi Poojary, has been absconding ever since she was let out on bail in a passport forgery case in 2005. A five-year-old Interpol Red Corner notice is still pending against her. (Courtesy: CBI website)

  Shameem Mirza Beg, alias Mrs Paul, was Chhota Shakeel’s business cum love interest. Apart from spending hours talking to the Karachi-based don on the phone, she also managed and supervised his activities in Mumbai. She was arrested in March 2002 under the stringent MCOCA and chargesheeted three months later. (Courtesy: Mid-Day, Mumbai)

  Rubina Siraj Sayyed, notoriously referred to as the moti (fat) girlfriend of Chhota Shakeel, is seen coming out of the Mumbai Crime Branch office. Once a beautician, Rubina allegedly looked after all the needs of Shakeel’s gangsters and handled the financial affairs of his gang. She was convicted under MCOCA. (Courtesy: Mid-Day, Mumbai)

  Mumbai’s most famous bar girl, Tarannum Khan, of Deepa Bar, made headlines when the police found out that she had minted millions from betting on international cricket games. (Courtesy: Mid-Day, Mumbai)

  Our separation did nothing to affect her plans against Dawood, though. In fact, after we parted ways, I was told that she assembled a group of Muslim youth in her struggle against the mafia, and Dawood in particular. Her group of young men treated her with a lot of respect. For them, she was like their older sister, which is why they addressed her as didi. Sapna had drilled into them her cause of defeating Dawood, who she believed was a stigma to the Muslim community. Her men served as a strong network of informers, and in the name of Mehmood, she continued to do what she believed in strongly.

  Then, one day, about two years after we parted, one of my men, Ahmed, who on my insistence had been keeping track of Sapna’s activities, shocked me when he told me that Sapna was in the middle of plotting a very audacious plan, which if executed, could lead to Dawood’s funeral. Ahmed had got the tip-off from one of Sapna’s trusted aides.

  Sapna, like always, had managed to surprise me. The plan, which I still consider exemplary, took me off-balance. Like everyone else in India, Sapna wasn’t spared the brouhaha surrounding the India—Pakistan cricket matches being played in Sharjah in the early 1990s. Sapna wasn’t a cricket fan; if she watched these matches, she did it only for one person—the rotund man who sat in the VIP enclosure with his glares on, unruffled by media scrutiny. Sapna hadn’t seen Dawood in person before, and these matches were the only time when he actually came out in public. Sapna watched each and every move he made. Ahmed had told me that she had recorded most of these matches and was in the process of getting a blueprint of the Sharjah Cricket Association Stadium, Yes, Sapna was planning to kill Dawood at the stadium, in front of thousands of people, while a match was going on.

  I remember Sapna telling me once that the Nepal trips and constant tip-offs to the police were not really helping her accomplish anything. She felt her efforts were a drop in the ocean of Dawood’s underworld business. Perhaps this was true but we’d heard that Dawood was very annoyed that someone was daring to challenge his supremacy. That it was Mehmood’s wife and I, had made him doubly annoyed. But this hadn’t satisfied Sapna and perhaps it had only been a matter of time before she decided to take this step.

  As far as I know, Sapna had never been to Dubai or Sharjah. If she knew anything about these places, it could have been only through her husband. Sapna had hand-picked around seven to ten men. Ahmed told me that Sapna had made arrangements to send these men for a brief trip to get an idea of the place before they carried out the attack. She was confident that Dawood would be unarmed at the stadium. According to the game plan, the men would carry innocuous tools like umbrellas, glass botdes and stilettos to the stadium and buy tickets for seats around the VIP enclosure where Dawood would be sitting. At a point when the audience stood up to cheer a six, or a wicket taken, some of Sapna’s men would handle Dawood’s men, while the rest—using the sharp tips of the umbrellas and broken bottles—would attack and kill Dawood. The whole thing, Sapna hoped, would only last a few minutes.

  Chapter 7

  REVENGE GONE AWRY

  S

  ometimes I wonder if I could ever forgive myself for what I did to her. Our parting had been so acrimonious that she had not once thought of meeting me again. I wanted to stand by her as she prepared to take on Dawood but she had left no room for me in her life. I heard that Sapna had married a cop from Nagpada. Apparently they’d developed a great rapport during her years as a police informer. It hurt me to learn that she was with someone else but knowing Sapna, I guessed that she had some agenda behind this too. As I predicted, her marriage did not last long.

  Meanwhile, her men—after travelling to Sharjah—had made all the necessary arrangements, including sourcing blueprints of the stadium. They were also being trained aggressively to take on Dawood and his men without any effective weaponry. The warring team was only months away from tasting success when my darkest fears were realised .. .

  I learned that one of Sapna’s men had squealed to Dawood’s right-hand man Chhota Shakeel about her plan. This meant that things could turn extremely dangerous for her. My ego wouldn’t allow me to reveal what I’d learned to her, so I started keeping a watch on her whereabouts and also kept myself updated on all the developments in the underworld, because knowing Shakeel’s temperament, he was not among those who would keep quiet after hearing about Sapna’s daring plan. He had a bad temper and was known to react violently. In this case, I felt, he might not do anything because Sapna was a woman and, up until then, the mafiosi had followed a rigid code of not hurting women or children. I thought that all Dawood’s men would do was threaten her with dire consequences. But I was very wrong.

  Sapna had recently moved to a small house in Hujjrah Mohalla in Nagpada. Hujrah Mohalla housed small-time goons and was also popular in Dongri for its clothing stores selling readymade garments for women and children. Till around 7 p.m. the lane is usually bustling with commercial activity; after 8, the shopkeepers wrap up for the day and it becomes a den for goondas. They gamble, they plot robberies, pick-pocketing schemes or talk politics and religion. It is the most interesting place to be in at this hour. The reason why Sapna moved there, though, was because it was barely a few metres away from Mussafir Khana, Dawood’s paternal home. Sapna had deliberately housed herself close to her enemy’s den, so that she could be alerted on movement of any kind. Shifting base closer to the serpent was a bold decision; it was a risky move, something I wouldn’t have considered doing.

  On that particular night in 1994, Sapna was down with high fever. She asked her men to leave her alone so that she could get some rest. I am sure one of her own goons must have alerted Shakeel to the fact that she would be alone that night.

  It was a little before 10 p.m., and Hujjrah Mohalla was busding. The noisy lane, however, seemed to take a collective breath and stiffen when a red Maruti van drove into the lane. Passers-by saw four men step out of the van with daggers and pistols and force their way into the building where Sapna lived. Before anyone could even react, the men had barged into her house.

  Sapna, who I believe was fast asleep on her bed, was completely unprepared. They woke her up and dragged her down onto the floor and began kicking her in the stomach and on the hands first, in order to prevent her from getting hold of any weapon.

  Defenceless, Sapna kept screaming for help, but her timid and unarmed neighbours stayed away. By now, the four cowards had reached for their daggers and had begun stabbing her. Instead of killing her at one go, they decided to put her through an extreme level of torture. Perhaps they had been instructed to make her an example for anyone who dared to even think of taking on Dawood. Sapna’s flesh was riddled with wounds and blood splattered on the floor. The men deliberately targeted her breasts and vagina, where she suffered over twenty-two stab wounds.

  When she had finally collapsed, the four men left the way they had come. The peop
le who had gathered outside the building, drawn there by Sapna’s screams, stood by in silence. They all knew that these were Dawood and Shakeel’s men and kept away.

  When Ahmed told me about what had happened to Sapna, I was shocked. I rushed to the hospital but was told that she had succumbed to her wounds and been brought in dead. My Sapna had gone away in a whiff, and I hadn’t been able to do anything.

  It’s been four years since the incident and I am sure of one thing—Chhota Shakeel and his men will never be brought to book for Ashrafs murder. During the initial investigations, I heard the police had made a few arrests, but they were unable to convict anyone for the crime.

  Today, the residents of Hujjrah Mohalla, many of whom were witnesses to the murder, don’t even dare to speak about that incident. They are probably trying to forget it ever happened. But I am not like the others. I cannot forget Ashraf because she is the only woman I’ve ever been so madly besotted with. She made me think and behave like a human being, treating me like a friend and not like a gangster.

  I feel responsible for everything that happened to her, and regret turning her into Sapna didi. I knew that her chances to kill Dawood were slim. If I had, without being overcome by her and my own emotions, put some sense into her, she would probably have remained Ashraf, the Ashraf I knew—a beautiful, burqa-clad Muslim girl. The Ashraf I saw on that day we first met looked like a wilted flower yet her innocence melted me, and her determination astounded me.

  I did not realise when Ashraf became Sapna. She, unlike Ashraf, was not ashamed of how the world perceived her. She had lost faith in religion and sought only within herself the strength to avenge her husband’s death. Sapna was a woman who wasn’t willing to compromise with her emotions. She was magnetic, powerful and painfully attractive, just like a dream, a dream I wasn’t ever able to understand.