My Name is Abu Salem

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  Two men from the navy, Manish Thakur and Emile Jerome Mathew, were also lodged in barrack number 10. Thakur was accused of killing his girlfriend Kausambi Layek in an Andheri hotel in 2005 and was subsequently lodged in Salem’s barrack in 2007. Jerome had killed television executive Neeraj Grover when he found the latter at the house of his girlfriend, starlet Maria Susairaj. Jerome suspected Maria of infidelity and chopped Neeraj’s body into a reported 300 pieces. In a gruesome aside to that tale, Jerome and Maria had sex twice in the same room, next to Neeraj’s corpse lying on the floor. The couple then burnt Neeraj’s body parts in the jungles off Manor.

  Thakur was a naval engineer, while Jerome was a navy officer, a sub-lieutenant. Both these well-educated men became Salem’s assistants of sorts in the jail. They helped him draft his legal pleas, fill out application forms, strategize on defence matters and understand convoluted legal documents. In fact, Thakur and Jerome became integral parts of Salem’s think tank. Needless to say, they shared his meals and other luxuries in jail. Salem’s clout and affluence made their lives easier in jail.

  Over time, the gangster gradually decided to make further use of their skills and asked them to write his life’s story. It thus came to be that a school dropout had two educated navy officers working as scribes for him. The autobiography projected Salem as something of a hero. Over hundred pages were handwritten by Thakur and Jerome in legible English on sheets of paper. Salem intended to pass on his story to a film director and demand that it be turned into a motion picture. He was certain that his story had the makings of a box office hit. All in all, Salem was lording over barrack number 10, treating it as his fiefdom. He was the uncrowned king of his barracks.

  Mustafa Dossa, alias Majnun (so called for his womanizing), was another heavyweight in Arthur Road Jail. Charged with involvement in the Mumbai serial blasts and deported from Dubai in 2003, Dossa was regarded as the undisputed boss of the jail long before Salem entered the picture. Several gang members paid obeisance to him and rallied around him to enjoy the perks he had managed to procure either through court permissions or by greasing the palms of jail officials.

  Once, on the occasion of Eid, Dossa obtained court permission to have sheer khurma (a Persian delicacy) in jail. The courts allowed him to have the delicacy, but the jail officials could not interpret whether the order was just meant for Dossa or it extended to all other Muslim prisoners. They decided to play safe and so Dossa threw a sheer khurma feast for the entire jail. This made him rather popular.

  Over time, Salem and Dossa were happy to rule the roost in their own demarcated territories and neither came in the other’s way. But their comfortable and luxurious prison life was shattered by a totally unrelated incident. Ajmal Amir Kasab, the lone surviving Pakistani gunman among the ten terrorists who attacked the city on 26 November 2008, was arrested by the police and, after a brief spell in police custody, was shifted to Arthur Road Prison. His security was assigned to the Indo-Tibetan Border Police (ITBP). Kasab’s incarceration had converted the whole jail into a fortress even from the inside. Several accused and detenues were moved and reshuffled from their cells and barracks for security reasons.

  Dossa ended up being shifted to barrack 10, regarded as Salem’s stronghold. Dossa did not think much of Salem, having seen him play a small-time lackey in the Anis Ibrahim gang. Dossa’s wealth and supporters ensured that he had the upper hand in this territorial battle, while Salem who was facing an acute cash crunch felt slighted by Dossa’s attitude while staying in his fiefdom. The atmosphere grew tense with the two megalomaniacs trying to assert themselves.

  Finally, on 24 June 2010, Dossa decided to teach Salem a lesson. The spoons were sharpened and Dossa decided to disfigure him knowing that Salem was extremely vain. He had figured right. Narcissistic to the core, Dossa’s attack on his face left Salem totally rattled. The attack led Salem to be immediately shifted to Taloja Jail, while Dossa was transferred to Thane Central Prison. The government, too, was shaken by the attack. Any serious outcome would have left them red-faced in front of the international community. In fact, they had a tough time explaining the incident to the Portuguese tribunal.

  Wasting no time, the minister of state for home, Ramesh Bagwe, decided to visit the prison and inspect the scene of the crime. Bagwe was shocked at the conditions in the jail. Addressing media persons, he said that the jail was like a five-star hotel where underworld members could get any facility for a price. Salem’s cell had a bed, utensils and even semi-nude photographs of models, while Dossa’s cell had huge tiffin boxes and a massive supply of fruit that could last several people two weeks. These two prisoners from the underworld were living very well indeed.

  As a norm, the state government always sends the Dawood gang’s rivals to Taloja prison to avoid showdowns in Arthur Road Jail with their arch-enemies. But these punishment transfers were soon converted into an advantage by gangsters who virtually ran their activities from behind bars. Arthur Road Jail, for example, is close to Dawood’s stronghold in the Muslim segment of South Mumbai; so, it’s easy for the gangster’s couriers to pass on his messages to the prisoners. Taloja Jail is close to Dawood’s rival Chhota Rajan’s stronghold, Navi Mumbai. Rajan’s trusted aide D.K. Rao was sent there instead of Arthur Road Jail after his arrest. Dawood’s arch-enemy Arun Gawli too has been lodged in Taloja since his conviction in the killing of Shiv Sena corporator Kamlakar Jamsandekar.

  The idea behind the construction of Taloja Jail on the outskirts of Mumbai was to decongest Arthur Road Jail, which is bursting at the seams with over 2100 prisoners, more than three times its designated capacity of 800 prisoners. Taloja Jail is still under construction and is expected to accommodate 2500 prisoners when it is completed and fully functional. Currently, it has 867 inmates, including Somali pirates, Bangladeshi migrants, members of the Indian Mujahideen and the Students Islamic Movement of India (SIMI) as well as eight accused in the September 2007 Malegaon blast case, including Lieutenant Colonel Prasad Shrikant Purohit. It also houses members of the Bharat Nepali, Ashwin Naik and Salem gangs. Salem and Gawli are the two dons lodged in the jail.

  Taloja Jail, too, has its high-security anda-shaped cellular structure, a double-storeyed one at that. Each floor has fifty cells of 10 feet × 5 feet. Salem inhabits one of these and is kept in solitary confinement. Thirteen cells next to his are vacant, so he has virtually no neighbour. Also, having suffered a violent skirmish in Arthur Road Jail, Salem decided to be discreet in Taloja. He knew that the only powerful man in the jail was a Dawood detractor, Arun Gawli, who had shifted there a year earlier in 2009. So, Salem decided to befriend him. Grapevine has it that the two occasionally chat in the open spaces within the 20-foot-high walls of Taloja. Salem soon regained his lost bluster and began threatening jail officials. He once reportedly threatened a jail staffer: ‘Goli yahaan khayega ya bahar khayega?’ (Do you want to be shot inside or outside the prison?) It was this arrogance and Salem’s growing unpopularity that paved the way for a near-fatal attack on him.

  On 23 June 2013, Devendra Jagtap, alias JD, a sharpshooter of the Bharat Nepali faction of the Chhota Rajan gang, had returned late after his court appearance in Mumbai. It was around 8.30 p.m.; while his escort team left to unlock his cabin, JD strolled towards Vishwanath Shetty (Anna), another Rajan aide, whose cell was close to Salem’s. JD engaged Anna in conversation for a while. Then he stealthily moved towards Salem’s cell and saw the don was reading a newspaper. JD had concealed a countrymade revolver in his clothes. He whipped out the gun and fired at Salem. Salem, whose back was towards the door, was startled by the sound and the bullet whizzing past his face. He turned immediately and saw JD, who fired another shot. The bullet hit Salem’s hand. He ran towards the corner where the bathroom is located when JD pulled the trigger a third time. But the bullet got stuck in the trajectory and he could fire no more. By then, Salem had also raised an alarm.

  The prison guards, who had by now taken a good twenty minutes to unlock JD’s cabin, c
ame running to take him to his cell. Salem was badly shaken. Had JD aimed better, a single bullet could have spelled doom for him. Several questions remained unanswered in the incident. Who gave the gun to JD? Why was he not frisked at the entrance? How and why was he allowed to stroll towards Salem’s cabin unhindered? Why was he not stopped by his escort team? Why did the escort party take twenty minutes to unlock his cell? The attack reeked of a full-fledged conspiracy. The government suspended four jail officials for their lax approach. Incidentally, JD is the man who killed advocate Shahid Azmi in 2010.

  The Kharghar Police launched an investigation into the case and grilled JD. The sharpshooter confessed that he was given a supari by Dawood’s right-hand man Chhota Shakeel. JD said he had spoken to Shakeel from inside Taloja Jail using two mobile phones. Shakeel had promised JD that if he managed to kill Salem, he would be made the leader of the gang in the jail. The gun was procured through one of JD’s aides lodged in the same jail.

  Salem thus survived a second attempt on his life by his arch-rival. The first one had been in New Jersey. The attack in Arthur Road Jail was more of a salvo fired at his ego and vanity than his life. But the attack in Taloja was a serious one. Shakeel had been after Salem ever since 2001 when he was in New Jersey, but Salem had managed to escape. Salem was left wondering how long his good fortune would survive.

  Once again, advocate Saba Qureshi came to the rescue. She realized that the two attacks on Salem were blessings in disguise and decided to rake up an old petition his previous lawyers had filed in the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR), appealing to stall Salem’s extradition to India. This was after the Portuguese government and courts had green-lit his extradition. The ECHR intervened and stalled the extradition, thus delaying it for a month or so. The ECHR is an international court established by the European Convention on Human Rights. It allows for applications against states that violate one or more human rights statutes concerning civil or political rights. The appeal can be made by an individual or a group or a state and the ECHR is empowered to deliver judgments or give advisory opinions.

  Saba, along with her Portuguese counterpart, advocate Manuel Luis Ferreira, is drafting a plan to approach the Portuguese court and the ECHR to raise appeals on Salem’s mistreatment in jail, the two near-fatal attacks on him, and the Indian government’s failure to abide by the terms of extradition as ruled by the Portuguese Supreme Court.

  If the ECHR takes note of the appeal and is convinced by the case presented by Saba and Ferreira, this can spell colossal trouble for the Indian government. Since the Indian government is not part of the European Union, the ECHR order will not be binding on it; but it will be mandatory for Portugal to obey the ECHR’s dictates. The Portuguese government which is doing billions of dollars of business with India did not want to upset New Delhi for one criminal. So it was not seeking Salem’s recall so aggressively. However, if the ECHR issues a clear diktat, then the Portugal government will have to pressure India to send Salem back. The Indian government may not have a say in such an eventuality and it might be forced to send Salem back, much against its wishes.

  Will the don win this round? Only time will tell.

  Epilogue

  A Don-in-Waiting

  2 p.m., 26 May 2014, Mumbai Sessions Court

  IT HAS BEEN ALMOST SIX MONTHS since I last met Abu Salem in court and tried to convince him to tell me his story. Salem is wearing a yellow shirt, brown trousers and black designer shoes today. Once again, I find him hungrily attacking his food. He has become leaner since I met him, but what really surprises me is his changed hairdo. He sports a much closer crop than his stylish haircut of the past.

  An overweight but dangerous-looking officer attempts to block my way at first, but eventually allows me access. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, I come directly to the point. ‘So when can we start discussing your story?’

  ‘No, I don’t want to waste my time on the book. I want you to do the movie script. It’s the most amazing story and people will love to see it on the screen rather than read some book,’ he tries to dissuade me again.

  ‘I assure you that the book can be converted into a movie script and perhaps could even turn into a major film,’ I persist, knowing the futility of trying to convince someone so stubborn.

  ‘You are trying to reduce a Salman Khan to a Hemant Birje,’ he shoots back.

  I am taken aback by the analogy. Salman Khan has been responsible for hit after hit, while Birje was a one-movie wonder and a less-than-remarkable actor.

  ‘I don’t agree with your comparison, but it all depends on the potential of the story,’ I try to reason with him.

  ‘I know my life story is good. The audience will be hooked,’ Salem says, wolfing down his food.

  ‘Okay,’ I concede, ‘let’s work on both the book and the movie script.’

  ‘Haan, let me think about it and discuss it with my wife,’ he says, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Wife? Which one? You have already divorced Sameera, Monica is no longer in your life. Are you referring to the woman you married on the train?’

  Mumbai Mirror has recently reported that Salem married a young girl from Mumbra, on board a train while he was on his way to Lucknow. The girl is at least twenty years younger than Salem and appears to have been brought in to troubleshoot for him. Salem is going through an acute financial crisis and has no one to look after his money which is locked in properties in Mumbai, Mira Road and his village, Sarai Mir. This girl, who was cheerily posting Salem’s picture on her Facebook profile, is now apparently also controlling some vital decisions of his life. He begins to fumble. ‘Jo bhi ho, I want to ask my life partner and don’t want to decide before asking her,’ he says, cheeks reddening.

  ‘When will you tell me?’ I ask.

  ‘Give me a month or a month and a half. By then, even some of my court cases will be wrapped up and I will be a relieved man,’ says Salem, polishing off the last crumbs.

  ‘What will you do once you are released from jail?’

  ‘I will enter politics and fight elections,’ he says confidently.

  ‘How are you so sure of making it in politics?’

  ‘I know I will win comfortably from my village. The seat belongs to me if I want,’ the don in him is making an appearance.

  ‘Which party will it be? Samajwadi Party?’ I ask.

  ‘No!’ he says incredulously. ‘Why Samajwadi Party? I can even contest on a Shiv Sena ticket and win.’

  The portly police officer indicates that I have taken up plenty of time and should probably leave. I promise to meet Salem again in a few weeks after he consults his ‘wife’. I quickly take my leave.

  I have decided to have a word with Monica Bedi too. After all, she seems to have turned a new leaf and has begun giving interviews to film magazines. She is evasive initially and pretends to not know me. Then she changes tack and stops responding to my messages. I recall my last meeting with her around five years ago in a suburban coffee shop. I was carrying out research for the present book as well as for Mafia Queens of Mumbai with a colleague.

  It was early 2009. Monica was late by over forty-five minutes, but was apologetic. Very unlike a celebrity.

  ‘I am extremely sorry for the delay,’ she said, sitting down opposite us with her publicist joining her on the couch. ‘This show is so competitive . . . I have been practising with my choreographer all day, so I just got caught up. Sorry again,’ she added.

  Monica Bedi was doing well for herself in life and had managed to start her career afresh. The show she was referring to was the third season of Jhalak Dikhla Jaa, which was going to hit the screens in the second week of April 2009. Monica seemed very nervous about the dance show. ‘Cut-throat competition,’ she put it succinctly.

  Monica was dressed in a green T-shirt and blue jeans that showed off her slim figure. Her wavy hair streaked with golden brown was let loose and she barely had any make-up on her face, except for a tiny bit of gloss on her lips. A few peopl
e threw knowing glances at her, but Monica seemed indifferent as she made herself comfortable on the small cane couch.

  The meeting had been fixed after a lot of unanswered calls and ignored messages. She did not want to meet me because she knew I was working on a book on Abu Salem and her love story. She had finally agreed to meet us over coffee at the JW Marriott Hotel in suburban Mumbai, following repeated requests to her publicist Shradha. The sole purpose of the meeting was to convince her to talk to us for the book. ‘I am not so sure about this. The past few months have been so good and I have been so lucky that I don’t want to rake up my past any more,’ she said.

  ‘But don’t you want to clear the air?’

  ‘I don’t feel the need to. People have started accepting me despite my past. You’ve seen it on Bigg Boss,’ she said, sipping her black coffee, referring to the successful reality television show which was her comeback vehicle. We noticed that she was deliberately avoiding the mention of Salem in our conversation. Despite her reluctance, we explained the premise of our book to her. Monica listened carefully and, for a moment, she seemed intrigued. ‘Even if we do the project, how would I have to contribute?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a few sittings with us where you can tell us your real story.’

  ‘Hmm . . . Do you know how many people have offered to do a film on my life? I’ve always refused.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to forget my past. It was traumatic,’ she said.

  ‘But your story is very interesting . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know. Interesting for others, not for me, which is why I have got the copyright for my story,’ she said.

  ‘How can you have a copyright for your story when it is out in the media and heavily recorded in police dossiers?’

  She didn’t reply for a few seconds. Then she said, ‘Uh . . . I will have to speak to my parents before I get back to you on this. They take all my decisions for me.’