It was him. It was the same man she had seen a few hours ago, the same man who had smiled at her before he’d disappeared into a crowd.
Ashraf bent slightly and held the body in her arms. The last time she had held him this close was the night before he was leaving for Dubai. He had made love to her at that time, passionately. She reached for his lifeless fingers and entwined her own with them. These were the same fingers that had wiped her tears when she was upset.
The vague premonition that had left her anxious earlier during the day had finally revealed itself. Mehmood was dead. He was gone.
Mehmood’s body was buried the next day at Nariawali Qabrastan. Ashraf was not allowed in the burial ground but she stubbornly waited outside the masjid until all the rites were performed.
The previous night, she had been told by hospital staff that her husband had been declared dead on admission. The report had stated that he had died of four bullets in an encounter, after he fired at the cops. The next morning her relatives had told her that the press had reported that police inspector Emanuel Amolik had led the encounter. She thought about the officer, memorising his name. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she remained unaware that she was being observed by someone who had come to pay his respects to her husband.
The namaaz-e-janaza was read and the body buried. Ashraf watched from far, like a wooden doll, eyes dry but hardened with grief. It was late evening by the time all the necessary rites were completed. When the crowd left, her relatives tried to get her to leave with them. She refused, saying she wanted to be alone for some time. Finally, tired of trying to persuade her, they gave in and left without her. When everyone had gone and it was silent all around, Ashraf quietly slipped into the graveyard. She moved towards the freshly-made grave; once there, she fell to her knees and dug her fingers into the mud. The thought of her husband lying there, below the mud, crippled her. For the first time since his death, Ashraf cried. She stayed there for a long time, weeping. When the sky had grown dark and the silence was eerie, she decided to leave. She had just begun to lift herself, when an old man came and stood beside her. He held a glass of water in his hand. Discomfited by his presence, Ashraf started straightening her burqa and wiping her tears.
‘Drink some water,’ he said, handing the glass to her. When Ashraf politely refused, the man remained silent. Ashraf presumed that he was the caretaker and waited for him to reprimand her for entering the graveyard. When he remained quiet, she finally asked him why he was there. This is when he spoke.
‘Please accept my condolences. My name is Usmaan and I knew your husband very well. He was a very nice man.’ She sighed, thanked him and moved forward to leave the graveyard.
‘I know who killed your husband,’ the man said suddenly. Ashraf stopped.
‘Your husband and I had a common enemy. He doesn’t live here. The man who planned his killing is actually someone sitting in Dubai.’
Ashraf was confused: she had been told that an officer had shot her husband; now this old man was talking knowledgeably about someone else being responsible for the murder. She knew that Mehmood had been close to someone in Dubai, and that his recent trip had been to see to some business that needed to be settled urgently.
‘Who?’ she enquired.
‘His name is Dawood,’ the old man said. ‘Mehmood refused to do some work that Dawood had told him to, which is why Dawood decided to have him killed here. He tipped off the cops about your husband’s arrival yesterday.’
Ashraf eyes widened in shock. ‘Why did he have to kill my husband? Wasn’t there another way to resolve their differences?’ she asked, tears slowly beginning to fill her eyes again.
‘Dawood wanted to make Mehmood an example for people. He orchestrated the murder so that others wouldn’t make the same mistake your husband did.’
Things began to fall in place for Ashraf. In the last month, she had noticed that her husband had not been himself. He had been disturbed. He had also told her that this was going to be his last trip to Dubai as he wanted to settle matters with his boss once and for all. Of all the things she had heard since her husband’s death, what this man had just told her was the most believable.
Then the old man said something that set the ground for the change that would occur in Ashraf s life: ‘Don’t you want to take revenge?’
Ashraf looked at the old man, shocked and confused at the same time. ‘What kind of question is this?’ she asked in between sobs.
‘See, there is no point in crying now. Your husband has gone ... he won’t come back. But you need to deal with those who were responsible for this; don’t you want them to pay for what they have done?’ he asked.
Ashraf immediately replied, ‘Of course! That man deserves to die.’
‘So, how do you think he will get his punishment?’ he asked softly.
‘I will complain to the police. I will tell them that they were tricked by that man in Dubai.’
‘Oh .. he smiled, ‘and you think that they are going to believe you? Beti, most of these police officers are on Dawood’s pay-roll. You won’t get anywhere by doing that. In fact they might take you down, just like they killed Mehmood.’
‘Then, what do I do?’ she asked desperately, still crying.
‘Hussain Ustara,’ Usmaan said. ‘He knows everything about Dawood and hates him. There are not many who would be willing to stand against Dawood and help you but Hussain is a renegade and has his own axe to grind against Dawood. He has a gang of his own and he knows how to use weapons; he might help you. He lives in Pydhonie.’
Ashraf stood quietly for a second or two, then, thanking him, she slowly walked out of the graveyard.
Chapter 1
ON THE TRAIL OF A GUNMAN
A
fter walking past a series of crowded streets, the man finally turns into a filthy, narrow lane. He goes down a couple of metres before stopping in front of a building. He turns to the two men who have been patiently following him all this while. With a grin on his scarred face, he asks them to go up. The men look at each other for a brief second and then, without a word exchanged between them, enter the building and head up a narrow flight of stairs.
The inside of the building has the sense of a dungeon: dark, stale air, and a creepiness about it. The men spot small cameras spying on them as they walk up, but choose not to discuss it. Both are writers by profession: I, then a budding crime reporter, and Vikram Chandra, already an established author after two bestselling novels—Love and Longing in Bombay and Red Earth and Pouring Rain. He is in the middle of his third, much-awaited book, Sacred Games. We’ve already met the retired, ageing don, Karim Lala, and the gangster-turned-politician, Arun Gawli.
According to the police, neither of these two have used firearms, and Vikram now wants to meet a gangster who has wielded guns.
After a lot of convincing, I have managed to fix an interview with the notorious gangster and police informer Hussain Ustara. When we reach the floor on which we have been told he lives, we see a brown, painted door left ajar. The man who has led us through the confusing alleys of Dongri is now standing behind us; he guides us into the flat.
Vikram sees another camera at the entrance. When he moves the door slightly to enter, he realises that the door is not made of wood, but metal. The security, we realise, is an indication of the current threat to Ustara’s life. Ustara has informed on underworld kingpin Dawood Ibrahim on several occasions, and his life now hangs in the balance.
The drawing room is simply furnished, there are only a few pieces of furniture. A man with a small paunch dressed in a white tailored shirt and trousers sits on a couch. I indicate to Vikram, with my eyes, that this is Ustara. Vikram gives a slight nod to indicate that he understands.
There is a table behind Ustara, on which closed circuit television screens rest. Ustara asks us to sit down on the couch that faces him.
Salaam ... tashrif rakhiye (take a seat).’ The atmosphere is relaxed and Vikram and I sit on the couch without any
hesitation.
The man’s sophistication and flawless Urdu surprise us, given his means of livelihood. He is not the stereotypical
Mumbai ‘bhai’ or ‘goonda’ and astonishes us even more when he calls for tea and biscuits. He then begins speaking of how he and I have met a few times, and is keen on knowing about Vikram.
When Vikram finishes talking about his book, Ustara asks, ‘So how can I help you?’
‘T’d like to know everything about your world and its people,’ Vikram replies.
Ustara laughs. ‘Zaidi can tell you about us. He is a crime reporter.’
‘I know, but I still want to hear it from you,’ states Vikram.
‘Trust me, there is nothing I can say that can interest you. Right now, as you see, I am stranded between life and death. I am just here to do my job like you men.’
Ustara doesn’t seem as if he is in a talkative mood, but finally comes around. He speaks to us about his life, his early use of razors (‘ustara’, thus the name) to settle arguments, and how he rose to command his own gang. Vikram is systematically taking down notes, only interrupting the flow now and then with questions.
However, when Ustara starts speaking about his feud with Dawood Ibrahim, he stops midway, as if a lump has gotten stuck in his throat. Both of us wait for him to speak. He doesn’t. I think of diverting the conversation to his personal life.
‘What about women?’ I ask.
Ustara grins, as if he was just getting there. ‘Who doesn’t like them?’ he says, and then adds, ‘but no one could compare with Sapna.’
‘Sapna?’ Vikram immediately asks.
‘Yes, Sapna ... actually Sapna didi. Heard of her?’
The name rings a bell but I can’t quite place it.
‘She was my best friend,’ Ustara says. ‘I met her twelve years ago. I was much younger then ... somewhere in 1986.’
Sensing Ustara’s absorption with the subject, Vikram stops taking notes and says, ‘Tell me more about her.’
Ustara leans back on the couch, lifts his legs to sit cross-legged, and begins speaking.
Chapter 2
THE UNEXPECTED VISITOR
I
pulled down the steel handle, opened the closet and sifted through the clothes for my beige cotton trousers. I finally managed to find it after I had thrown all my clothes on the ground. Then, without wasting too much time, I had a bath, shaved and got into my pants before hurriedly shoving all the mess back into the cupboard. When I was ready, I cast one last glance around the room; it was clean enough for the visitor.
That night, I had specifically asked my men to keep away from my house until I called for them. I was going to sleep with a Maharashtrian woman. Not like this was my first time or anything, of course! But this woman, I had been told, was one of a kind. I had already paid a bomb for the whole evening and was anxiously waiting to have her in my bed.
I realised that I had gotten ready an hour before time— it was only 7.30—so I decided to get myself a drink. I opened a bottle of whiskey and poured a peg in a steel glass. I tried not to make it too strong, pouring more water than usual in it, but before I knew it, I had already thrown it back.
While drinking, I had the wildest thoughts about the girl about to come into my room. My work had deprived me of good nocturnal activity for over two weeks. I wanted to make up for it today. Women have been my weakness ever since I can remember. There is nothing I can really do to get over this, so I just buy them when I have the urge. Today was one such day.
I was already three pegs down and preparing the fourth one, when the doorbell rang. She was here. My heart began thumping and a feeling of anxiety overcame me—for some reason, the excitement to see the woman who I was going to spend the night with had suddenly been overtaken by an ominous feeling. I am generally not a superstitious person, but something did not feel right. I went and opened the door.
To my surprise, instead of a Maharashtrian woman, a lady clad in a shiny black burqa was waiting at the door. Her hands and face were bare, though and—mashallah— I hadn’t seen such a beautiful woman at my doorstep in a very long time.
She was tall with milk-like skin. Her lips were a pale pink and she had the most stunning pair of deep-set eyes I had seen. She was worth every single rupee I had spent. Assuming that she was the Maharashtrian woman in disguise, I called her in.
However, before she entered she said salaam and asked, ‘Kya aap Hussain Ustara hain?’
I was startled, first because I did not expect a Hindu to greet me with a salaam, and second, because she knew my name. As far as I remembered, I had strictly informed my men not to mention my name while making the deal. Her beauty though, made me overlook the mistake my men must have made. "Yes, of course,’ I answered. ‘Come inside.’
As she walked in, her eyes scanned the room. Then she turned to me and asked, ‘Can I sit down? I need to talk to you.’
‘Talk?’
From experience, I know that such girls only want to talk first if they want to negotiate a better deal.
‘You really want to talk now?’ I asked.
‘Yes, please hear me out. It is important.’
Her behaviour was strange and that made me suspicious. I told her to sit down and moved towards the drawer where I knew my gun was. I took it out, placed it on the table that was beside her. I have always felt that men with weapons can get the world to touch their feet. I had taken the gun out to intimidate her but she continued to sit there, unflustered. In fact, she merely looked at the gun curiously.
‘Can this kill a man?’ she asked, her eyes still on the gun.
Yes, but—’
‘How many bullets does this pistol have?’ she interrupted me.
‘Eighteen. It’s made in Germany, and it’s my favourite gun. But, why are you so curious about the weapon, sweetheart? I thought you were interested in some other weapon,’ I said sarcastically.
‘No, I am only interested in weapons that will help me achieve my goal,’ she said.
I burst into a fit of laughter, still assuming that she was the Maharashtrian woman I had planned to spend my evening with. ‘Goal ... what goal do you have, woman?’
‘My goal is the same as yours,’ she said.
Aha ... now this pretty lady was talking business, I thought. ‘Yes, your goal and mine are possibly the same. The only difference is that you make the money and I lose it on you,’ I said.
‘Money? I don’t make money at all.’
‘Oh! So you are doing this for charity, haan?’
‘What do you mean?’ she looked irritated.
I was tired of this game she was playing, and said so. ‘Okay, get on with it woman, stop playing around. Give me what you are here for.’
‘I am not here to give you anything. I have nothing to offer, I just want help from you.’
‘Help?’ I lost my temper and asked angrily, ‘What do you want? Who sent you here?’
The woman broke down all of a sudden and began sobbing. I did not know what to do.
‘Usmaan bhai sent me here ...’ I could hear her say between sobs.
When I heard Usmaan’s name, I realised my mistake. Usmaan would never even think of sending a dhandewaali to me. He was too decent a man for that.
I tried to calm her down and rushed to the kitchen to get her a glass of water. When I handed her the glass, she was still weeping.
‘Sorry for this. I mistook you for someone else ... Why have you come here?’
‘My name is Ashraf Khan. I lost my husband Mehmood Khan last week. He was murdered.’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that.’
‘I want to settle scores with the man who killed my husband.’
‘And who do you think killed your husband?’
‘One Dawood from Dubai.’
‘Dawood? You mean Dawood Ibrahim?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And you want to settle scores with him?’
‘Yes.’
I wanted
to laugh but something in the tone of her voice stopped me. A widow of six days, she did not realise the enormity of her own words. She wanted to take on one of the most dreaded gangsters in the world. ‘So, why have you come here?’
‘I heard he is your enemy.’
Yes. If I ever see that rascal, I will feed him alive to the dogs.’
‘Then, will you help me kill Dawood?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Can you teach me how to use a gun?’
I nodded, taken aback by her naivete. Did she honestly believe that was all it took—that because she had lost her husband to guns, that was the only way to get the enemy? Possibly she’ll soon realise that she can put her fragile and beautiful self to some better use, I thought. ‘Come at noon tomorrow,’ I said.
She rose from the couch, thanked me and hurriedly made a move towards the door. I looked at my watch, it was 10 p.m., and there was still no sign of the woman who I had anxiously been waiting to sleep with. Reaching out for the door, Ashraf said, ‘Oh, while you were in the kitchen, a woman came to meet you. She saw me and left without saying anything. I tried to stop her ... but she ...’
Oh no! I thought, but only nodded.
‘Khuda hafiz, I will come tomorrow,’ she said.
There had gone my plans to sleep with a Maharashtrian woman. Ashraf had ruined it all.
Chapter 3
THE AVENGING ANGEL
I
jump into the cold water. Inside, my feet touch the tiles before I lunge forward and pull myself upwards. When I reach the surface, I see myself in the middle of a vast pool. The water is a deep, clear blue.
My view however is blocked by three topless Chinese women. They are swirling around me. One is teasing me while the other is trying to pull me towards her. Their bare skin is tanned and their silk-like hair cannot hide their small, supple breasts.
Mafia Queens of Mumbai Page 8
