21
A Don in Love
She was the spitting image of yesteryear starlet Leena Chandavarkar. Voluptuous, with a perfect round face and charming dimples, the charms of Sujata Kaur could be resisted by few men. Dawood proved no exception. He was besotted with her, though they were an odd pair. She was a Punjabi kudi, while he was a local lout.
But if they did not look good together as a couple, they more than made up for it with a potent chemistry, one that made married couples blush. It all began with Dawood’s shop in Musafirkhana in south Bombay. Sujata lived nearby and every time she passed by Manish Market on her way to the shops, Dawood never missed a chance to catch a glimpse of this tall, lithe beauty. Of all the girls that walked that route, this woman was a class apart. Dawood began tailing her, until she became aware of him. He then began wooing her. He tried everything that someone of his standing could do, from meeting at bus stops to waiting hours for the love of his life.
Sujata could not resist Dawood’s charms and after a few furtive meetings, she was inexorably drawn to him. In the next two years, the couple were inseparable. Sujata was the only person who could vouch for the fact that there was another side to Dawood. Most people only saw the violent and brutal man that was Dawood Ibrahim, but Sujata saw and experienced his tender, loving, romantic side.
It was around this time that Sujata’s parents heard of her dating Dawood. Her father was furious. First, Dawood was a Muslim and then a hoodlum to boot. In no time, he got her engaged to a boy from their community. To make matters worse for Dawood, he confined Sujata to their home, banning her from even stepping out of the door.
When Dawood heard about this, he became furious and stormed over to Sujata’s residence, brandishing a Rampuri knife. Seething with resentment and anger at her father’s actions, Dawood hammered on Sujata’s door.
Sujata’s father opened the door diffidently to face a raging bull. Dawood threatened him, adding, ‘Let her choose whom she wants to marry.’
The entire neighbourhood gathered, in the meanwhile, to witness the family’s moment of trial. ‘My daughter can exercise her choice but she will be an orphan if she marries you. My wife and I will jump off this building if she doesn’t leave you,’ Kaur informed him calmly. Caught in a dilemma, Sujata, who was weeping inconsolably along with her mother, decided she could not upset her parents. She looked at Dawood and firmly said, ‘We cannot be together. I don’t want to marry you.’
For a moment, Dawood was dumbstruck. He wanted to hit out at Sujata, drag her down the building by force, and make her pay. But that was a fleeting thought. Dawood was wise enough to know that you cannot force anybody to love you. What he did not understand was the pain, the hot, searing pain that was stabbing at his heart as if he had been just shot. Not even in the savage world he inhabited, where violence was a byword, did such pain exist.
A numb and distraught Dawood walked down the steps of Sujata’s residence. ‘The bitch turned against me,’ he kept muttering.
Soon after the break up in 1983, Dawood was melancholic, mournful because of his failed love. He was often heard humming that famous song from 1966 Dilip Kumar starrer, Dil Diya Dard Liya, ‘Guzre hain aaj ishq mein, hum uss maqam se, nafrat si ho gayi hain mohabbat ke naam se [today, I have passed that stage in love where I cannot bear the name of love]. ‘
He had never been a diehard romantic, but Sujata had turned him into one. And now, a year from his involvement with her, he was back to being a misogynist. He decided women were not worth adoring; they should be just treated as an object of lust, and nothing beyond that.
Dawood’s friends suggested he drink away his pain but he refused to hit the bottle. When they tried to set him up with women in their circle with the intention of helping him get over his grief, he always turned down their offers and foiled their efforts. He had decided not to love any woman with this intensity, never fall in love at all. But then Mehjabeen happened, and all his resolutions were turned to dust.
22
Ageing Dons
Mastan had managed to achieve almost everything in life: money, power, clout, respectability, popularity, and whatever else that matters in life.
He had managed to get his three daughters, Qamrunnisa, Mehrunnisa, and Shamshad, married into good households and as a father he was satisfied with his filial responsibilities. However, he longed for a son who could have succeeded him and immortalised his name. Mastan often looked at Ibrahim Bhai and felt envy at the way the Almighty had blessed him; so many children and six of them sons.
When a man is getting older, he becomes both more devout and desperate. Mastan had become highly religious and apparently philanthropic as well. He made a trip to Mecca and Medina again. Nobody knows how many times he had accomplished Hajj, but with his newfound faith in God, he added a prefix of Haji to his name. He was now known as Haji Mastan Mirza. Muslims normally do this to show the world they have made a trip to the Holy Kaaba, and have in a way repented and given up all the vices in their lives. The prefix is also cited as evidence of credibility and probity.
Mastan had also begun making supplications for a son at the shrines of all the revered saints. He began visiting all the religious shrines in the city and across the country, giving charity and feeding the poor and asking everyone to pray for him to get a son.
His devotion went to a new level when he got interested in Muslim social movies, which focus on religious messages for the family. Mastan saw that films were a powerful medium; and that the masses react to movies more than anything else. So, he became interested in producing these films. The seventies and early eighties subsequently witnessed a spate of Muslim social movies like Mere Gharib Nawaz, Niaz aur Namaz, Bismillah Ki Barkat, Awliyae-Hind, Dayare-Madina, and scores of other movies.
In the course of meeting film personalities, Mastan encountered Veena Sharma alias Sona. She was touted as a Madhubala lookalike, and Mastan, like the youth of his time, dreamt of marrying Madhubala, the most beautiful screen diva of Bollywood since the inception of the film industry. They say there will be none like her ever again, but when Sona appeared on celluloid in the late seventies and early eighties in Muslim social movies, some thought she bore a striking resemblance to Madhubala.
Mastan lost no time in sending her a marriage proposal, which she readily accepted. He was a powerful producer, and she a struggling starlet, so the union was almost pre-ordained. He bought a palatial bungalow for her in Juhu and moved in with her. Soon he began flaunting her at public functions. He ensured that he was photographed with Dilip Kumar and Saira Banu with his new wife in town, at all the major dos. Mastan cherished these photographs, often showing Dilip Kumar and Mastan together, and adorned the walls of his bungalow with them. Soon, he gained the reputation of a socialite, and talk of his smuggling activities and offences became history.
In hindsight, it seems like this was Mastan’s ploy for shedding his dark image and going legit. He had always craved respectability and some position in society. The Muslims of Bombay had had no respectable reformist leader in the community who could hold sway in the community, till now. So, Mastan decided to take over the mantle of the community’s leadership. Unfortunately, the masses were not wise enough to resist his attempt to fill the void at the top.
Mastan, who was invited to all respectable gatherings and given a significant spot on the dais of these functions, played to the gallery at times and made inflammatory speeches. The Special Branch (SB)-I of the police, which always went sniffing around occasions like these, realised that Mastan’s emergence could mean trouble. This was duly reported to the top bosses at the Mantralaya.
During the communal riots of 1984, when the government began a crackdown on anti-social elements, the police top bosses decided to detain all mafia head honchos. Senior Police Inspector Madhukar Zende, who had quite a reputation, picked up Mastan and Karim Lala and charged them under the National Security
Act (NSA). Mastan was actually in hiding at his Juhu bungalow, but Zende managed to drag him out of it and hauled him to the Crime Branch. Subsequently, Zende raided the Taher Manzil at Grant Road residence of Karim Lala and took him to the police headquarters.
The Police Commissioner Julio Ribeiro, who had heard much about Mastan and his ill-gotten fame, was shocked to see him when Zende produced the smuggler. What he saw was a puny, frail, wiry little man. Zende would not forget the way his police chief reacted: ‘Is this Mastan, that famous guy?’
Both Mastan and Karim Lala were convicted under NSA and had to serve several months in the Thane jail. Mastan felt thoroughly humiliated and chastened. All his wealth, money, and hobnobbing with Bollywood and politicians were of no avail. He wanted people who could stage rasta rokos (demonstrations) for him, a mob who could subjugate the authorities; hordes of supporters who would become a formidable force on his side, a source of power. After days of thinking and consultation with his think-tank, which also included his mastermind, his police informer and sounding board Jenabai, he came up with a master plan. Why not bring the Dalits and Muslims together? Both of them are downtrodden and oppressed groups of people, he thought, and both have an axe to grind with the system, as Dalits and Muslims both feel the government has been unfair to them. A joint platform as a united force would also be an answer to the Shiv Sena’s muscle. In fact, they would emerge stronger than Bal Thackeray’s Shiv Sainiks, dreamt Mastan.
After meeting with several Dalit group leaders, one of the senior leaders and intellectuals, Jogendra Kawade, gave his support to Mastan’s brainchild. Thus came into existence Dalit-Muslim Suraksha Mahasangh (DMSM), in 1985. Despite good coverage in the print media, the party failed to make its presence felt, however; even in the face of Mastan’s best efforts to fund and promote the party, it could never rise to become a force to reckon with.
All the smuggling cases against Mastan had now been disposed of. He now devoted his time between politics and real estate. Karim Lala followed suit and decided to reform himself as well, focusing on his hotel business and disassociating himself from any kind of criminal activity. Baashu Dada had in the meanwhile migrated to Hyderabad and vowed never to return to Bombay.
The only one who was still active, still nursing his ambitions to become numero uno in the Bombay mafia, was Dawood Ibrahim.
23
Death of a Brother, Birth of a Gang War
Popular Hindi film songs rent the air as girls, dressed in their gaudiest finery, hung about the long verandahs of Congress House in south Bombay. The address was a misnomer. Once upon a time, stalwarts of the Indian National Congress who spearheaded the freedom movement in India had set up base at Congress House. But those were nobler days. By the seventies, it had become a whorehouse where nautch girls, called mujrewallis in the local lingo, entertained clients àla Pakeezah. Some of the nautch girls were good singers and nimble with their feet, but over the years, the place had disintegrated into a proper prostitution joint where men came up to pick up the finest piece of flesh they could find. Unlike their counterparts in Kamathipura and Falkland Road, sex workers from Congress House catered to a richer clientele. So while the place looked tawdry, it did not wear the desolation and desperation of Kamathipura. It had the unkempt look of a whorehouse but the girls were classier and prettier, and wore fragrant mogra, but the scent of sin could not be masked.
The girls lived in tiny, water-tight compartments with equally small dreams. They had no siblings and family; their fellow workers, pimps, customers, and the madams who stood guard over them doubled up as this. Most of them lived and died in the same place. Some of them had managed to put their children in boarding schools, where they were being educated unaware of their mothers’ dark secrets.
In this vast cauldron of sex and sin, lived Nanda and Chitra, two women in their late twenties. Both were friends and had been forced into prostitution at a tender age. They had lost their parents in infancy and their relatives had dumped them at Congress House for a few hundred rupees. They were raped in the initial years, before finally coming to terms with their destiny and getting some small measure of control over it.
Now, a prostitute will give pleasure to over twenty to twenty-five men in a span of twenty-four hours but she will always cherish sex with one particular man. Sex with the chosen one is never be treated as a chore, for she chooses her beau as the man’s interest in her is not confined to her body or face. For Chitra, Sabir was one such customer.
Sabir was only in his second year of marriage when Chitra happened to him. Chitra was no head turner, but she was charming and good looking, and most importantly, she lavished attention on the curly-haired Sabir. He was a poet at heart, showering her with Urdu ghazals and shayari (poetry) which actually made her blush.
Sabir had married for love, and his wife Shahnaaz was quite a good looking woman. Although she was seeing a Pathan before marriage and was known as Lala ki Lali, Sabir wooed her and eventually convinced her to marry him. Dawood had never liked the idea of his brother marrying someone else’s girlfriend but he loved his brother and had given in to Sabir’s wishes. Within the first year of their marriage, Shahnaaz bore Sabir a son, Shiraz, and then Shahnaaz conceived again. It was then that Sabir was drawn towards Chitra, who made time for him and returned romance back to his life. Not that he stopped loving or caring for Shahnaaz, but she was heavily pregnant and sex with her ballooning person did not appeal to him.
With his new paramour, he went to watch movies, where Chitra did things to him that never even happened in the movies. They ate bhelpuri at Chowpatty, dined in expensive restaurants, and drove around in their car on the streets of Bombay.
Chitra enjoyed Sabir’s company and the luxury that money could buy. He was a divinely prescribed antidote for her otherwise bitter life; life in Congress House was depressing and Sabir’s presence made her forget it for a while. Her meetings with Sabir barely lasted for a couple of hours, as he had his family and business and he was always in a rush. But whenever he dropped her off at Congress House, she was left feeling overwhelmed. She could not help but confide in her friend Nanda about her passionate encounters with him. For example, she said, one day Sabir had bought a cone of ice cream from the Chowpatty seaface and dumped the whole thing on her face before licking off the cream in full view of the public, even as Chitra shrieked in horror and delight.
Nanda envied Chitra though she never told her as much. Nanda wanted a man like Sabir; there were no fairytale endings in their lives, but a lover could help alleviate the pain of the life she lived. As Chitra kept filling Nanda with stories of her blossoming love life, Nanda lapsed into depression. And then one fine day, a tall, handsome Pathan walked into her life.
Amirzada befriended Nanda with a purpose. But Nanda, in her hunger for a real lover, failed to see through his designs. Amirzada had learnt of Sabir’s interest in Chitra and knew that she was the key to Sabir. When he learnt that Chitra was completely smitten with Sabir, he latched on to her friend Nanda. Amirzada’s entrance into Nanda’s life filled a long pending void in her life, as he wooed her in just the manner she imagined Sabir had romanced Chitra. The red light area lives up to its image; nothing lies hidden here for long. In no time, Sabir learnt about Nanda’s relationship with Amirzada. But even though Amirzada was a former foe, he thought the past was well behind them.
In the meanwhile, Amirzada began to keep tabs on Sabir’s movements through Nanda. One evening, he called Nanda and told her he wanted to spend a night with her. Nanda was elated, but then she thought of her best friend Chitra. Lately, Chitra had been quiet; Nanda had not seen Sabir visiting her for a long time. Mindful of Chitra’s pensiveness, Nanda asked Amirzada if she could bring Chitra along. When Chitra overheard Nanda’s conversation, she immediately interjected, saying she would not be able to make it as Sabir was visiting her at night and they had planned to go out. Unwittingly, Nanda relayed the information to A
mirzada. The Pathan did something Nanda did not figure out until the next day; he told her he could not make it and slammed the phone down. Nanda was left holding the phone, surprised and disappointed.
As there are restrictions on timings at Congress House, clients and visitors cannot stay in after 12:30 am. So, whenever Sabir was late visiting Chitra, he took her out on a long ride. This particular night, on 12 February 1981, at around 1 am, the two left in his white Premier Padmini Fiat.
That night, he had just returned from Shahnaaz’s periodic medical checkup—she was in her seventh month—when he had got a call from Chitra, who told him that she was missing him. Sabir left immediately, telling Shahnaaz he would be back in the morning. For Shahnaaz this was now routine. Sabir kept disappearing, night after night, on flimsy pretexts. They fought bitterly over his absence, but Sabir failed to pay heed and stormed out, every time, just as he had this night.
As Sabir’s car exited Kamathipura and took a sharp left on Tardeo to emerge on Haji Ali shrine’s intersection, he checked the rearview mirror out of habit. There, he saw a flower-bedecked Ambassador following them closely. A newly-married couple, he thought and smiled. It was past midnight, and Chitra, sitting beside him in the car, was in a mischievous mood, putting him, in turn, in the mood for love.
Suddenly, Sabir’s attention was drawn to the fuel meter. He cursed under his breath and looked around for a petrol pump to refuel his vehicle. After several failed turns, he remembered that there was a gas station at Prabhadevi a few kilometres away. He just hoped his car would pull through the four to five kilometre distance.
Dongri to Dubai - Six Decades of the Mumbai Mafia Page 14