Mumbaistan

by Piyush Jha

  Later, Zohra had come to know that Rabia had not eaten for four days. She had run away from her home in Haryana after being raped by the village sarpanch's son, a slick-haired youth who was being groomed to take over his father's position. 'Well-meaning' villagers had egged her on to complain against the rapist. But before she knew what was happening, it had blown up to become a communal issue. She would have been strung up on the same tree that provided shade to the village panchayat. But some humanity was still alive within the elders. They had passed an externment order instead, and pushed her out onto the highway.

  One never-ending rape-cum-lorry ride later, she had found herself deposited on Mumbai's mean streets. Not wanting to be raped anymore, she had curled herself up under a cardboard carton in the nearest lane, prepared to die of hunger.

  Rabia had shivered uncontrollably as she recounted her story to Zohra.

  ◉

  Tanvir still sat quietly in the teashop. The thoughtful expression had returned on his face. He took small sips from the now tepid tea, as if trying to prolong the experience. His reverie was interrupted as a man in a khaki bush-shirt and pants emerged from the stinking back lane. This was the same man, the municipal jamadar who had been keenly observing Rabia through the binoculars across the building. He passed through the kitchen and entered the small sitting area of the teashop.

  He sat down next to Tanvir, eyeing the road in a similar fashion. He didn't say a word, but a glass of chai was put in front of him. Ignoring it, he kept his eyes on the street.

  After a while, Tanvir opened his palm and levelled it to the jamadar's line of sight. The jamadar let his eyes move across the number a few times, as if memorizing it. Satisfied, he smiled to himself. He now whispered without glancing at Tanvir, 'Call the number. Do as he says'

  He then looked away into the distance, and was about to get up and leave when Tanvir spoke, 'What about Rabia?'

  The jamadar sat down again and, without a change in expression, said, 'Forget Rabia. It's Aalamzeb we are after. You have drawn him out, ab apun uska game baja dalenge.'

  Tanvir looked amused. 'Speaking like a tapori doesn't suit you, ACP Hani.'

  The jamadaar/ACP Hani replied, 'Okay, so if you'd like me to speak plainly, it's time we finished Aalamzeb.'

  Tanvir's eyes flared. 'ACP Hani, I have done as I had promised; now you finish whoever you want, by yourself. I don't want to be involved in this any further'.

  The ACP looked towards Tanvir for the first time. His eyes were cold, his face stony. 'The three attempt-to-murder charges against you will ensure your involvement, won't they? Or should I order an encounter to seek your further cooperation?'

  Tanvir didn't back down but he did modulate his tone, adding a pinch of respect in it, 'ACP saab, it's because you had promised to get the attempted murder charges dropped that I undertook this assignment. I had only promised to use Rabia to make the contact with Aalamzeb. I've done that, now please, don't go back on your zubaan. The problem is, if my people find out that I'm helping the police, they'll brand me a "khabri". My career will be over.'

  The ACP also softened his tone. 'You are helping the anti-terrorist squad nab Pakistani terrorists. Don't worry. Your gangster friends will understand. And my word is set in stone. You will be a free man soon. Just do this last bit. Draw Aalamzeb out into the open. You have gotten his mistress, Rabia, to fall in love with you, so he's made a wrong move. He's contacted you. He doesn't want to kill you because he feels he'll lose her forever. Poor man, he really loves her. He now wants to show Rabia that you are not the honest, upright man she thinks you are, but a man as ruthless as him. Play along. We will be watching over you. Aalamzeb is sure to make another wrong move, and then we'll get him and the four other Pakistanis, who are hiding somewhere in this city.'

  'And Rabia?' Tanvir asked.

  The ACP emitted a dry laugh. 'Who cares about a two-bit whore anyway... Uh...don't tell me you've fallen for her?'

  Tanvir's expression was hard to decipher.

  'Love is a weapon. In the right hands, it can make a kheema of the hardest heart,' said the ACP, while his eyes searched Tanvir's face. Tanvir did not flinch under the scrutiny. This seemed to satisfy the ACP. 'Good. Now please go, you have a phone call to make.' He got up and flung a last steel-tipped glance at Tanvir. Tanvir smiled back, his manner reassuring. ACP Hani picked up his broom and entered the kitchen area, exiting on to the back street, unmindful of the stench.

  As the ACP disappeared from sight, the smile disappeared from Tanvir's face. He spat into his chai glass. Then he cursed and cursed. He cursed the day he had befriended Firoze Fateh Ali, the hotheaded gangster from Byculla, and had been recruited into his extortion syndicate. He cursed the day he had listened to Firozebhai's missive, and had graduated from being a small-time 'vasooli' to a 'shooter', by firing a shot at their rival, Pratap Pote. He had missed. He cursed the day when Pratap Pote had sent two of his shooters to finish him. Although he had had the presence of mind to stab both of them in the stomach and escape, he hated the fact that at that crucial moment, he had lacked the guts to push his knife further upwards and slice their hearts.

  All the three gangsters had survived. Fearing retribution, Ferozebhai had taken off for Malaysia and become incommunicado, and Tanvir had gone into hiding in Indore. He had been trying to go straight, and put the past behind him, when ACP Hani had caught up with him and offered him a deal. He had grabbed the deal, thinking it to be an easy way out. But now, he realized he was a puppet on a string that was firmly in the ACP's grasp.

  ◉

  The nondescript Mumbai Central branch of the State Bank of Punjab, located at the northern end of Falkland Road, was the financial hub of the neighbouring red-light area. Rabia and Zohra weaved their way through the traffic snarls on the road and entered the bank. Inside, Rabia went up to the cashier and handed her the withdrawal slip for 'Rupees one lakh thirty-two thousand and eighty only'. The cashier, unaccustomed to such large withdrawals, excused herself and went into the branch manager's glass cabin. A few minutes later, a lazy-looking peon came up to Rabia and asked her to accompany him to the manager.

  Looking a little worried, Rabia entered the cabin. The cashier looked at her as if she had tried to rob the bank, but the manager's genial smile put her at ease. 'Beti, do you want to withdraw all your money and close your account permanently?' he asked. Relieved, Rabia smiled and replied, 'I had saved all this money for my nikah. I'm getting married today. So I'm withdrawing it all.'

  The manager nodded but enquired, 'Congratulations, but shouldn't your husband-to-be take care of the nikah expenses?'

  Rabia puffed up her chest. 'A modern girl shares all expenses with her husband.'

  The manager nodded. 'I wish my daughter were as modern as you.' He signed on the withdrawal slip and asked the reluctant cashier to encash the amount. Rabia, grateful and relieved, thanked the manager and left.

  She counted the notes and then rolled them up, tucking the roll deep into her small Rexine handbag. Then Zohra and she went off for their shopping spree.

  The manager, who had been watching them through his cabin's glass door, dialled a number on his phone as they exited.

  'I have a tip for you,' he said.

  ◉

  Tanvir stood at the far north corner of the footbridge across the train tracks, near Grant Road railway station. After the construction of the new underground subway that exited near the ticket counter, commuters wishing to economize on every second of their hurried journey had abandoned the footbridge. It was now used in the evenings by ragpickers, drug addicts and 'five-rupee whores' who spilled over from the nearby Kamathipura. Tanvir had chosen this place because at that time of the morning, it was almost deserted. A more important reason, though, was the height—he was at an elevated vantage point and could spot anyone coming towards him at a distance of 500 yards.

  Tanvir dialled the mobile number scrawled on his hand. The 1990s Hindi film song 'Ek rasta aha aha. ..' started playing. The
song was cut short by a male voice. 'Yes?'

  Tanvir began, 'I was given your number...'

  'No need to explain, I know who you are. This number is not given to many people,' said the other person. Tanvir now fell silent, not knowing how to proceed. The man at the other end sensed his ambivalence.

  'So, are you ready?'

  'Ready for what'? Tanvir enquired, his manner cagey.

  'Ready to take your destiny into your own hands and guide it to glory?'

  'Yes,' Tanvir said, with just the right inflection of fanaticism in his voice.

  The other man replied, 'Good, I will tell you what you have to do to join the jihad.'

  But what he said next further parched Tanvir's already dry throat. His fingers went numb as he clutched the mobile. Somehow he managed to reply 'Yes' that came out as part croak, part cry for help. Thankfully for Tanvir, the man didn't catch on to his discomfort. 'Allah Hafiz', he said and cut the line, after giving detailed instructions.

  The corners of Tanvir's mouth drooped. Using the overbridge railings for support, he closed his eyes to stabilize himself.

  ◉

  Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus Railway Station, still sometimes referred to as 'VT' (a nostalgic abbreviation for Victoria Terminus) by many a local Mumbaikar, is one of the world's most crowded places in the evenings. It has to bear the double brunt of the office-going crowds returning home and the out-of-town passengers leaving for various destinations across the country. Somehow, it survives this onslaught day after day. Such is its stony resilience that it has also survived a brutal terrorist attack with not a scar to show.

  But in the middle of that morning, the terminus was quite empty. Tanvir stood on Platform No. 5 cursing the emptiness, while waiting for the Bhagalpur Lokmanya Tilak Express to pull in. He attempted to take cover, standing right in the middle of a knot of on-holiday taxi drivers who were heading home to their native Bihar. In order to avoid undue attention, he flashed an occasional smile and bobbed a cursory nod at the excited banter between the taxi drivers.

  As the express train drew into the platform, he sidled towards the door of an approaching bogey He extended his hand to grab the door handle, but was in turn grabbed from behind and pulled away from the train. Before he could protest, he was bundled across to the other side of the platform, into the bogey of an empty local train. Tanvir realized that his silent captors were two unsmiling well-built men, whose manner and clothing screamed 'plain clothes policemen'. He did not say anything but sat still, deciding to preserve his energy. He had a feeling he was going to need a lot of it that day.

  The train lurched forward and rolled out of CST, heading to the repair yard. At the last minute, a man jumped on. Tanvir shook his head and sighed as the man, ACP Hani, walked towards him and sat down on the empty seat opposite his. The two plain clothes men let Tanvir go and receded in the distance. As soon as they were out of earshot, Tanvir blurted out the details of what the man on the mobile phone had asked him to do.

  A crowded local train screamed past, on its way to CST. The ACP listened to Tanvir and kept nodding, poker-faced, while the rhythmic clank-clank of the passing local train filled their compartment. As soon as the train had passed them, the ACP looked straight into his eyes and said, 'Do it.'

  Tanvir stared at him, aghast. ACP Hani didn't him give a chance to speak. 'This is war,' he said. 'Any measure for the greater common good is okay in a war.'

  Tanvir set his jaw firmly. 'I won't. I will be labelled for life.'

  'Aalamzeb will kill you, and a few thousand other people. How would you like to be labelled as the man who let that happen?' asked the ACP.

  Tanvir's protests continued. But ACP Hani was past caring. He stood up and pulled the stop-chain. The train trundled to a stop near the Masjid Bunder station. The two plain clothes men grabbed Tanvir. Without warning, they pushed him out of the local train and jumped out behind him. To his luck, Tanvir landed on his feet. The men then dragged him through a break in the wall next to the train tracks. Before any passer by could react, he was bundled into a waiting police jeep and whisked away towards Chira Bazaar.

  ◉

  Chira Bazaar's narrow lanes comprise mainly old three-storey buildings with jewellery shops and wedding-invitation-card shops in front. However, over time, these buildings have begun to get 'modernized'. That is, to accommodate the ubiquitous new-fangled 'ready-made garment' shops at the street level, and the seedier 'massage parlours' on the darker floors above.

  Tanvir was marched up the stairs of one of these old buildings. On the rooftop stood ACP Hani who, without a word of greeting, pointed at places along the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Tanvir's eyes strained hard to notice that a man, with what seemed to him a powerful long-range rifle, was positioned at each of these points. These men had their eyes trained on the shifting sea of humanity on the streets below.

  'These sharpshooters will protect you,' the ACP said, his manner terse but reassuring. Tanvir looked unconvinced. In a flash, the ACP's tone changed to his favourite cold one, 'And if you don't do Aalamzeb's bidding, they will shoot at you. They won't kill you, just maim you. But in such a way that, I promise, these wounds will stay with you for long.'

  Tanvir snarled back this time, 'ACP saab, don't push me too far. Remember, I'm the one who's charged with three attempted murders'

  ACP Hani smiled, 'Arre, shabash! That's the way! Channelize all your energy into hatred for my kind. You will not falter. Go now. Meet me at the saloon later.'

  Tanvir turned away from the ACP. Seething with rage but managing to control himself, he walked down the dark wooden stairs into the street.

  ◉

  At that very moment, inside a Chira Bazaar jewellery shop, Rabia's keen eyes were inspecting an exquisite green crystal floral motif crafted into the heart-shaped centrepiece of an exquisite kundan jhumar, one of the most coveted ornaments for a Muslim bride. Pinned on one side of the bride's hair, the flowing jhumar, with its special gem setting, lends her a dignified communal identity.

  This particular jhumar was on display at Popular Jewels, one of the smallest but oldest jewellery shops in Chira Bazaar. Popular Jewels had earned a reputation for being one of the last few shops that provided superb traditional craftsmanship at affordable rates. The owners were known for their honesty, but on the flip side, the shop also had a reputation for a laid-back attitude towards security.

  It was, therefore, not a shock when a gangly well-dressed young man walked into Popular Jewels without being stopped. He had been following Rabia ever since he had received the tip-off from the bank manager. He sauntered up to Rabia and without warning, snatched her Rexine handbag off the glass-topped counter where she'd placed it while trying on the jhumar. Rabia blinked, confused, not understanding what such a well-dressed young man would want with her bag. But when the man loped towards the exit, she displayed an alertness alien to her otherwise languid nature. She rose, screamed 'Chor! Chor!' and, with a speed seen only in professional sportspersons, sprang behind the thief, who had just about managed to reach the exit door.

  The store's lax attitude was on full display—the security guard's chair by the door was empty. As a considerate afterthought, the guard had left behind his antique 12-bore rifle propped against the wall, perhaps hoping that its presence would deter a thieving mind.

  In fact, this kindly act was what saved the day. Rabia, chasing after the thief, grabbed the rifle instinctively and emerged with it on to the crowded street. The sight of a burqa-clad woman brandishing a 12-bore rifle on the busy street, combined with Rabia roaring 'Chor!' had its effect. Most passers-by leapt out of the way. Fearing for their lives, they ducked down to avoid any errant bullets. This gave Rabia a clear view of the running thief. She raised the rifle, as if ready to fire.

  'Stop!' she yelled, as the thief was clearly in her sight. But nearby was also a police constable, who had just turned the corner, curious about the source of the commotion. All of a sudden, Rabia seemed to come out of a tra
nce. The realization of what she had been about to do hit her in the gut. In a flash, she lowered the gun. But not before the constable, too, had ducked to the side, fearing that he might encounter a bullet from her rifle. While doing so, he bumped into the thief, who was swerving past to avoid him. The thief was thrown off balance and landed on the dirty street with a loud thump. His head hit the ground and he was out cold. The constable, trying to regain his balance, saw that Rabia was still standing with the 12-bore in her hands, in a state of scared confusion. Equally confused, he grabbed the rifle from her and asked her to kneel on the ground. Between her gasps, Rabia tried to explain the sequence of events, but the constable would have none of it. A small crowd surged around, flinging questions at them and at each other.

  To Rabia's luck, Zohra arrived on the scene right then. She lifted her veil and gave the constable a beaming smile. He blushed, self-conscious. She placed a soft hand on his wrist and took him aside, casually pressing her breast on to his arm as he stepped away with her. Having caught his absolute attention, Zohra started recounting the chain of events to him to prove that Rabia was actually the victim. Meanwhile, Rabia stood on one side, catching her breath and examining the contents of her handbag, which she had managed to extricate from the unconscious thief's grasp.

  ◉

  Tanvir walked through the crowded streets, almost zombielike. The weight of the world seemed to sit on his shoulders. The noonday sun beat down on his already hot head. Realizing that his energy was draining fast, he stopped at a roadside nimbu sharbat wallah. He picked up a chilled glass of nimbu sharbat on display. Downing the tangy-sweet syrup in one gulp, he experienced the surge of courage that he had been desperately looking within himself for. He asked for another glass.

  Across the street, Tanvir saw a constable talking on his mobile phone, trying to explain something.

  A woman in a burqa walked up to Tanvir and, without a word, handed him a small plastic carry bag that she withdrew from the folds of her burqa. She pointed towards the constable. Before Tanvir could react, she merged into the crowd.