My Name is Abu Salem

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  Until now, the Company had been a dangerous bunch, but they had done nothing to sport the tag of ‘terrorists’. All that was about to change as Dawood called a meeting at his White House to set his plan into motion. Blood begets blood and violence begets violence, they reasoned. And began planning for retribution.

  Indian Muslim youths were flown over to Pakistan where they received demolition and ammunition training. They were then flown across to Dubai and turned into brainwashed tools for jihad, with hours and hours of video footage of Muslim women being raped in the Gujarat riots of 1992 following the demolition of the mosque. These young, heat-seeking missiles were now ready for launch.

  It was decided that Tiger Memon, a Dawood aide from Mahim who was part of the inner coterie—and the top gold and silver smuggler—would be the kingpin. Memon and Dossa were to spearhead the operation. Dawood would provide logistical support to Memon to bring the ‘raw material’ to Indian shores. Memon brought over eight tonnes of RDX, thousands of grenades and a number of Kalashnikov rifles to the coast of Raigad, Maharashtra, in February 1993. The stage was set and the actors were all but ready for the grand finale. Memon had assembled a team of nineteen people to carry out what would be the most destructive series of bomb attacks in India.

  On 12 March 1993, in a little over two hours, ten bomb explosions were set off all over Mumbai, scarring the face of the city. Starting off around 1.28 p.m. at the Bombay Stock Exchange building, explosions occurred at the Air India Tower, the grain market at Masjid Bunder, Plaza cinema hall, Sena Bhavan in Dadar, the passport office in Worli and five-star hotels in Bandra and Santa Cruz. If that weren’t enough, grenades were also hurled at the airport and the Mahim Fishermen’s Colony.

  Around 257 people died and 700 were injured, some grievously. Through keen deduction and a lot of good luck, most of the Mumbai Police’s biggest breakthroughs came in the very first hour after the explosions. After working overtime with the few leads that they had, various branches of the city’s police force began unravelling the conspiracy and planning that went into the execution of Black Friday. One hundred and twenty-nine accused were identified by the police, but the chief conspirators—Memon and Dawood—were nowhere to be found.

  The aftermath of this serial bomb attack was manifold. The Indian media exposed the level of the D-Company’s involvement in the attacks and the fact that Hindus and Muslims alike were killed in this so-called act of vengeance. Public perception was polarized now and people were baying for the blood of Dawood and his cronies. There was disarray within the Company itself, with Dawood’s right-hand man Rajan feeling the twinge of disillusionment, which slowly intensified into a burning disagreement with what the gang had just done.

  Meanwhile, over in Dubai, things were getting a little hairy at the White House, with the Indian government trying to hammer out an extradition treaty with the United Arab Emirates government. The Gulf, which until then had been a sanctuary for fugitive expatriates, seemed to have been compromised. Numerous fugitive expats began to panic and feel insecure. Dawood, however, had his eyes on a fresh start.

  After considering a number of locations, Dawood realized that the ISI would keep him and his people safe. So, around the end 1994, Dawood began once again to shift his empire to a new land. Karachi would be the new home of the D-Company. The port city bore more than a passing resemblance to Mumbai, and Dawood and company were able to seamlessly slip into life in Pakistan.

  Six

  Scurrying for Cover

  THE CITY AND ITS POLICE WERE caught completely off guard by the 1993 blasts. Salem had gone to offer his Friday prayers and from there went to his Santa Cruz office. After an otherwise uneventful day at work, he left for home in Jogeshwari around 3 p.m. and saw first-hand the turmoil the city had been hurled into.

  By the time Salem reached home, it was clear that the explosions were the handiwork of a terrorist organization. Salem was reminded of the arms and ammunition he had delivered to Sanjay Dutt’s residence barely a month ago. It didn’t take him very long to connect the dots.

  Soon, the police launched a major crackdown. Perpetrators were being picked up from all over the city. Even the rich and famous were not spared. The arrests of Hanif Kadawala, Samir Hingora, Baba Moosa Chauhan, Manzoor Ahmed and others led Salem to believe that he could be the next. He decided to flee to a safer destination before he was trapped in the clutches of the Mumbai Police.

  Salem had begun to believe that he had finally settled down in life. He had been in Mumbai for barely seven or eight years and had already carved a niche for himself in the underworld. His business of smuggling and bhaigiri was flourishing—an office in Mumbai, a car, a gang of over twenty like-minded lads, plenty of respect from those in his village and, most of all, money had ceased to be a problem. It had been a couple of years since his wedding. Sameera had begun teaching him English and a little bit about the etiquette and customs of the civilized world. But the serial blasts and the arrests of his friends had shattered his newfound image of success.

  There was an added dilemma about whether or not Sameera should join him. He consulted his friends, especially Kalam, and they all advised him that it would not be wise to travel with her. If the police were to detain them, it would unnecessarily put poor Sameera in an uncomfortable situation. So Salem decided to travel alone to Delhi, then to Lucknow so that he could make a fake passport bearing a different name for himself. He planned on relocating to Dubai and having Sameera join him later.

  Seven

  Despair in Dubai

  ABU SALEM KNEW, AS HE ENTERED Dubai airport, that he would not be returning to Mumbai any time soon. He was by now familiar with Dubai airport as he had been to the city four times since launching his smuggling career in 1987. But he had never anticipated that he’d be planning a long sojourn there.

  Dubai might have been described as a city whose pavements were tiled with gold, but Salem found no such thing anywhere in the United Arab Emirates. On his earlier visits, he had found it to be populated with Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and even Filipinos. There were more high-rises in Nariman Point and Cuffe Parade in the south of Mumbai than in the whole of Dubai. Until 1991, Dubai had only one skyscraper. It seemed like long stretches of desert on shining, clean roads. He had wondered why all the bhais had decided to move to Dubai and why so many film stars fancied this place. He’d seen people returning from Dubai with their pockets overflowing with cash, but frankly, this place with all its squalor and filth looked no better than Bhendi Bazaar.

  Aziz had convinced him that moving to Dubai would be the perfect way to work closely with Dawood and Anis, and get closer to the centre of operations. The way the fledgling gangster saw it, if Anis was Dawood’s right-hand man, Salem had to try and make himself Anis’s right-hand man, and that would make him Dawood’s ‘left-hand man’. To Salem’s ambitious mind, the logic seemed flawless.

  The young man managed to get a small place for himself at Yusuf Bakar Road in a suburb of Dubai which he shared with three aides of Anis Ibrahim. It was located in the Oont Bazaar (Camel Market) area and was separated from Dubai proper by a creek. Oont Bazaar had been set up in the early 1970s as a market for the sale of cattle. Since camels were the most popular form of cattle in this part of the world, the market became their fiefdom, so to speak.

  One could generally get from Dubai city to Oont Bazaar and back via something called abra (the local ferry) that cost around 25 Arab Emirate dirhams. Salem had been told that it was the quickest and cheapest means of transport there. Oont Bazaar was not just remotely located, its narrow, dingy lanes also had an acrid, musty smell. It was a disgusting mix of grime, sweaty body odour and the filthy stench of camels and cattle. Salem often wondered how the locals could stomach it.

  Unfortunately, he had no choice about his location. Interpol, the Crime Branch, the Intelligence Bureau (IB) and everyone in between was baying for his blood and this was the only place he could inhabit inconspicuously. But, as they say, every clo
ud has a silver lining and this hovel became a source of great fascination to Salem. He realized it could become a brilliant hideout for people fleeing India and looking for a safe house to lie low in. First of all, it was inexpensive and inconspicuous and so the people hiding there would be able to slip below the radar. Secondly, Oont Bazaar was an acquired taste and there was no chance that the authorities would be able to handle that dreadful stench for long enough to search the whole hotel. This seemed like the recipe for a perfect hideout.

  He was, however, getting increasingly worried about how he would bring Sameera there. With him gone, he knew she would be harassed by the Indian authorities. Of course, bringing her to live in Oont Bazaar was not an option, especially the hovel he called home during his initial days there. Finally, temporary arrangements were made for the lad from Azamgarh to live in Bar Dubai on the first floor of the building that housed Anis’s video company—King’s Video. The video tape business was massive there. People loved films and loved the stars. Not just the Indians, but even the Pakistanis and Bangladeshis were crazily attracted to Bollywood stars. No wonder Bollywood’s finest flocked so regularly to perform or just relax there.

  With a respectable roof over his head, Salem knew it was now time to restart his life in Dubai in exactly the same way as he had turned his life around after moving to Mumbai. All it had taken was a few short years. Back then, he had had nothing but his determination and never-say-die attitude. Today, he was armed with an innate understanding of the art of managing the underworld and turning people’s fear and insecurity into cold, hard cash.

  Salem had landed in Dubai under the name and fictitious identity of Akil Ahmed Azmi. He had had fake passports made in Lucknow for himself and Sameera under the names of Akil Ahmed Azmi and Sabina Azmi. It was this masterstroke that saved Salem from being extradited to India from Dubai, despite continuous pressure from the Indian government. The Arab bureaucracy maintained that there was no one called Abu Salem in the United Arab Emirates.

  The ploy was later perfected by Pakistan as well. When the Indian government sent complete dossiers with personal details and even the Pakistani address of Dawood Ibrahim, the Pakistani government claimed that there was no Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar on Pakistani soil. The Indians must have mistaken Shaikh Dawood for their most wanted accused, they scoffed at the Indian bureaucrats.

  Once Salem left the shores of Mumbai, he would formally never again be known as Abu Salem Abdul Qayyum Ansari. He would use his various fake identities for residential, business and travel purposes. But whenever he needed to spread terror, intimidate people and demand money, he would always return to his old greeting: ‘Abu Salem bol raha hoon.’

  Eight

  First Blood

  17 FEBRUARY 1995 WILL REMAIN FOREVER etched in Jyoti Pradeep Jain’s memory.

  As she and her husband Pradeep Jain were eating a quiet dinner in their Andheri residence, the telephone began to ring. She stood up from the table and walked over to the phone. The call would change her destiny.

  On the line was a man who identified himself as Abu Salem from Dubai and asked to speak to her brother-in-law Ashok Jain. When Jyoti said Ashok was not home, the man asked who was available. Jyoti answered honestly. Salem then asked to speak to Pradeep Jain.

  Jyoti watched as her husband took the phone and began to get steadily worked up. She had never seen her husband get so angry. He hung up, tense and stressed out. When Jyoti asked him what was wrong, he explained that it was a gangster called Abu Salem trying to pressurize Pradeep to leave his Koldongri property or be prepared to pay for it with his life. Frightened, Jyoti asked him to approach the police, but Pradeep refused.

  Settled in Dubai, Salem was planning to expand his work and to establish himself as a powerful don in the city. Anis had given carte blanche to Salem and asked him to take over the business of Bollywood and builders. Salem’s only brief was to ‘generate money through whatever means’. Following these instructions, Salem had unleashed scouts and confidants everywhere to sniff out lucrative business deals and affluent business people making their millions quietly, all potential targets. One of Salem’s primary reconnaissance agents was Riyaz Siddiqui. His only role was to provide accurate and reliable information on the businessmen. He helped Salem zero in on targets and seal large extortion pay-offs.

  The biggest target that Riyaz had provided so far was a builder by the name of Ashok Jain. The Jain family lived in the two-storey Brijkamal Bungalow at Gulmohar JVPD. They were five brothers—Suresh, Ashok, Rakesh, Pradeep and Sunil. They had a construction business, Kamla Constructions, with its office occupying the ground floor of their bungalow.

  When Salem called Ashok Jain and threatened him, he buckled fast under pressure. Ashok was quite well off and it seemed perfectly reasonable that he be made to pay Rs 10 lakh a month, Salem told him politely. He obliged Salem’s gang in the first month. But at the end of the second month, the monthly instalment was missing. Apparently, his brother Pradeep had convinced Ashok to stop the payments.

  Pradeep was one of those people who did not fear the underworld. Whether out of misguided bravado or a hunch that the mafia was bluffing, he refused to be intimidated to shell out so much as a single paisa. Salem called Riyaz and asked him to go and put some sense into Ashok and threaten Pradeep. Riyaz explained to Ashok that a man like Salem was dangerous and not to be trifled with. The fact that he was working for Anis Ibrahim Kaskar and the D-Company, he continued, was further reason to take him very seriously. No one refused the demands of the D-Company unless they were impatiently awaiting their own funeral. But Riyaz’s arguments were all in vain. The Jain brothers refused to budge.

  This presented a predicament for Salem and his boys. If one solitary builder got away without paying, the others would surely turn cocky. Another builder would call Salem’s bluff and decide not to pay. Then a third would follow and so on. Soon, no one would take the underworld seriously. There would be no more money for the D-Company, just mockery.

  So Salem concluded that blood would have to be spilled. Even if just one of the five Jain brothers was bumped off, it would spread waves of terror through Mumbai’s business community. Ashok was called one last time, for a final warning. The phone rang and Ashok promptly answered. Salem was shell-shocked to hear Pradeep snatching the phone from his brother and screaming expletives down the phone at him. Very few had spoken to Salem with such disdain ever since he joined the Company.

  When Anis took over the conversation, Pradeep launched a volley of verbal abuse at him as well, reiterating that they would not pay. After the phone call was over, Salem looked at a crestfallen Anis and felt the need to salvage the pride both he and his mentor had lost in that conversation. In Salem’s mind it was now clear as crystal—Pradeep was the Jain brother who would have to die.

  This was not about money any more. It was a matter of the Company’s clout and respect in Mumbai. A message was immediately sent to Salem’s driver Mohammad Mehndi Hassan (aka Sunny) in Kolhapur. He was told that Salim Haddi was to be taken to Pradeep Jain’s office and he was to be executed. To ensure that the task was completed, Salem sweetened the deal for his men. He told Sunny that if Pradeep was killed, he would give them an incentive of Rs 1 lakh each. The weapons were delivered near a hotel in Bhendi Bazaar. All preparations were in place.

  It’s only in the movies that mafia hitmen roam around with their weapons tucked in the small of their backs. Real-life hitmen, in fact, are provided guns just before the hit, by an errand boy. This courier boy was assigned the task of collecting the gun from the manager and passing it on to the shooter. Since each automatic Star pistol was valued at around Rs 1 lakh, mafia bosses hardly wanted to let these be kept with gunmen who could lose them or be arrested. Smuggling and procurement of weapons remained a difficult task, so it was prudent to keep the weapons circulating.

  Once Haddi was given the weapon, all Salem had to do was sit back and wait for the phone to ring. Haddi conducted the recce and studied Pradeep Jai
n’s movements. It took a couple of weeks for Haddi to decide on the most opportune moment to strike. On 7 March 1995, Salem received the phone call he had been eagerly awaiting. Haddi called to say that he had barged into Pradeep’s office with his cohorts, looked him straight in the eye and shot him dead. Pradeep’s younger brother, Sunil, who was present in the office, had also suffered injuries. Was he still defiant, even as death looked him in the eye, Salem asked Haddi. The ace shooter replied in the affirmative. The phone clicked as Salem hung up.

  For Salem, Pradeep’s killing was punishment for the impudence he had dared to show Salem and his boss. Jyoti’s whole world, on the other hand, had come crashing down. She had married Pradeep in 1982 and her thirteen years of married life had been blissful. Salem had destroyed everything.

  On 20 March 1995, while Jyoti was sitting at a prayer meeting to mark her husband’s terahvaan (the thirteenth day after death), she received a call. The caller asked her name, she identified herself as Jyoti, Pradeep’s wife. She assumed it was possibly a business associate of Pradeep or maybe even a distant relative or friend who had failed to make it to the final rites and was calling to convey condolences.

  The caller, instead, said, ‘Abu Salem bol raha hoon’ and then began laughing hysterically. When he stopped, he asked if she was enjoying her widowhood. He told her that Pradeep would still have been alive had he only paid up.