Dawood was very much in awe of his father, and yet he listened to no one other than his mother. There would be long spells when father and son would not be on talking terms: Ibrahim because he thought Dawood was a stigma to his name, and Dawood, sulking for having been pulled up. However, during these spells, his mother would never haul him up as his father did, but instead would remain a friend to him. So, the two would never not communicate. When it came to hooliganism, though, he would not listen even to his mother. ‘Beta, this is not right for you. Look, your dad is a policeman and your activities will ruin his reputation’, she would gently reprimand him. And each time, a noncommittal ‘dekhoonga maa’, was the budding don’s refrain.
Dawood could not resist being what he was. He loved the power that came by means of terrorising people and he wanted to earn pots of money by any means. Although poor and lacking the monetary resources, he longed to see his brothers in fine clothing and sisters and mother laden with jewellery. It was Dawood who called the shots and took major decisions regarding household expenses whenever these were needed. Amina always reserved her remonstrations for Dawood, directing her words to him because she knew that the others simply followed suit. Even Sabir, older to Dawood, was content playing second fiddle to him. The boy who would one day be the uncrowned king of the underworld lived a pauper’s childhood; therein, perhaps, lies the key to his greed and ruthlessness.
As was bound to happen with so much spare time on his hands, Dawood had crossed paths with ubiquitous local goons, by this time. He had heard about the power of the Allahabadi and the Kashmiri gangs, but the gang that Dawood really admired and wanted to be a part of was the Pathan gang.
In the meanwhile, a huge influx of Muslim youths from Ratnagiri to Mumbai had come about, particularly from Dawood’s village Mumka. They all invariably converged around Dongri. Ibrahim had become the pivot for most of the milling Konkani Muslims who landed in the city in the late sixties and early seventies. A small cluster of Konkani boys fell in with Sabir, Dawood, and his brothers. Ali Abdulla Antulay, later called Ali bhai, was one of these many boys new to the city. By the early seventies, the teenaged Dawood had become a ringleader of a small gang of boys, consisting of his brothers Sabir and Anees, his cousin, Ali, and others like Ayyub and Rashid.
The Bohras were a well-to-do community with established businesses that stretched right from the Khada Parsi junction to Claire Road in Nagpada, parts of Agripada, and Musafirkhana. They owned glass houses, eateries, and travel and tourism operations and were relatively the most prosperous of the lot in the area. Being peaceloving people, they shied away from confrontation and open fighting. When Dawood or his boys tried to extort money from them, they preferred giving away the money to creating a scene or worse, risking bodily harm. In this way, Dawood’s impertinence grew unchecked. After a while, he did not have to personally go to extort money—the gang members did the job for him, providing the muscle for his operations. All the boys, sometimes a motley crew of three or four, and at others, a gang of over ten, looked up to him as their leader, and with the title came perks such as a crew of willing boys working under him and reporting to him directly. In this manner, until 1972-73, Dawood was involved in extortion.
Dawood always wanted to get to the next level and he was no different as a young lad. Gradually the gang graduated to conning people. They set up a shop in Mohatta Market selling imported watches. One or two boys would walk the streets outside the shop and look for prospective targets. Finally, when they saw a potential victim approaching, they slid up to him quietly and showed him a watch in a case—‘Rado ghadi—5,000 ka maal 2,000 mein. Andar aa jao, baat karenge [A 5,000 rupees-worth Rado watch, only for 2,000 rupees. Come in, we can negotiate.]’. Saying this, they would lure the catch inside the shop. Once inside they would allow the man to bargain and finally close the deal at about 1,200-1,500 rupees. They would then take the watch in to be wrapped and packed, and replace the watch with a stone. They called this act ‘palti maarna’. Emerging, they would tell the man, ‘Yeh leke jaao. Idhar mat kholna. Koi dekhega toh problem ho jaayegi [take this with you, but do not open it here because if someone sees it there might be a problem].’ The man would unwittingly take it and walk away. Once a little away from the shop, he would open the box and discover the con. If he returned to the shop, the boys would deny everything with impunity. It was a cheeky and calculated little con game, and Dawood pulled it off.
Sometimes, the odd Parsi gentleman would lodge a complaint with Pydhonie Police Station. If the police came looking for them, they would decamp for days and sometimes even months to their villages. These little games served as a huge confidence-building exercise for Dawood and the rest of the gang, and they slowly but surely began to believe that they could pull off anything in this city.
10
Of Young Turks
Back in 1972, Bombay was made up of several constituencies and unlike the apathy between neighbours today, people knew everyone who lived in their neighbourhood. They knew, in particular, who the galli ka dada (local goon) was and which politician was thick with him. Baashu Dada was a well-known name in Teli Mohalla. Nobody dared cross his path in his backyard. One flex of his muscles, nursed carefully by the litres and litres of badam sherbet he downed during his daily baithaks, was enough to frighten away even the most fearless.
Baashu Dada always held his baithaks in the afternoon when he deigned to step out of his den into his lair just outside. Surrounded by his henchmen and soothsayers, he reigned over his principality with the sceptre of fear and terror. On one such day, he rolled into Teli Mohalla in his swanky Mercedes-Benz. The car drew to a halt and Baashu lay one foot encased in a shiny white shoe on the ground, then the other, and swung gracefully out of the car. For a man of his size, his movements were amazingly lithe and graceful. Rashid came running to greet Dada and immediately fell to his knees in front of him. He was not paying some form of medieval obeisance to Baashu, only tying a shoelace that had had the audacity to come undone on one of those spotless white shoes. Baashu never bowed before anyone, not even to tie his laces. The arrogance that gave rise to such behaviour is irksome. Baashu’s people quaked and curtseyed and bent over two times to accommodate his every wish, request, and demand.
On that day, there was a football match being played, part of a month-long tournament. Cricket was not the popular game as it is today among dons. His men, the Pathans, were staunch fans of football and all their activities ceased for the ninety minutes that the game ensued. In Baashu’s baithak, this event acquired an almost festive air. In those days, the only way to be tuned in to the match was through the radio. So accordingly, on the day of the match, everything was set to just the right mood for Dada to enjoy the match. The radio was tuned to the right frequency, the charpoy laid out, the badam sherbet cooled to just the right temperature.
But there was a problem that had to be dealt with at the earliest and the unpleasant job of dealing with this problem lay with Rashid. He creased and uncreased his brow trying to portray a measure of composure, failing miserably.
The Maharashtra Assembly elections were around the corner. The Umarkhadi constituency was Baashu’s home territory and he liked to keep it that way. However, things were not looking good this time round.
‘Dada,’ Rashid finally spoke up.
Baashu looked up in mild amusement at the quiver in Rashid’s voice.
‘Dada, election aa rahe hain [the elections are just round the corner],’ Rashid murmured.
Baashu stretched his back and leant on the charpoy. Rashid dropped the bomb, ‘Maulana bohot ekdi dikha raha hai [Maulana is acting a bit too smart].’ Finally it was out of his system!
Rashid’s declaration made Baashu sit up. The Maulana he was referring to was Maulana Zia-ud-din Bukhari, a respected leader of the local Muslim community. The Maulana had always enjoyed Baashu’s support, until now. Baashu had one very simple rule with politics—th
e winner of the seat in his constituency was simply the one who gave him more respect and more money.
He sat back in his charpoy in contemplation. No one was allowed to believe he was greater than Baashu. And God help the one who disturbs Baashu while he is listening to his match commentary, Rashid thought, as he waited.
In an ominous half whisper, Baashu replied at last, ‘Phir Maulana ko haarna hoga [then the Maulana will have to lose]!’
Rashid breathed out a sigh of relief. The worst had passed, he thought.
That same month, Maulana Zia-ud-din Bukhari lost the Maharashtra State Legislative Assembly Elections of 1972 to the candidate nominated by the Muslim League. He knew whose doing it was and he was not at all happy, of course. Baashu had beaten him at his game. He had pushed the Muslim League into nominating another candidate, Noor Mohammad, in his place and backed Noor Mohammad to win the election.
The Maulana put his wiles to use and thought up a two-step action plan to win back his good favour and pride. One morning, he went to Ibrahim Kaskar’s home with a unique proposal. After the requisite niceties were exchanged, he sprang his idea on the unsuspecting Ibrahim.
‘Ibrahim bhai, ek khayal aaya mere zehen mein, he began, ‘hamare ladkein yun dinbhar awaaragardiyon mein masruf rehte hain. Kyun na unse kuch tamiri kaam karayein. [I have an idea. Our local boys are idling away their time through the day. Why not enlist them for more honourable purposes?]’
Ibrahim replied politely, ‘Ji main samjha nahi Maulana sahib [I’m not too sure I understand what you’re saying].’
‘Kyun na naujawanon ki ek anjuman banayi jaayi [why don’t we gather the boys for a cause]?’ the Maulana continued.
Ibrahim agreed, saying, ‘Jee Maulana, jaisa aap theek samjhe. Hamari qaum ke naujawanon ko sahi raasta dikhana aapki buzurgi hai. Mere betein toh aapki khidmat mein hamesha haazir hai [as you wish Maulana, my sons will always be available to you].’
The Maulana left Ibrahim’s house very pleased. Next, he filed an appeal in the Bombay High Court alleging that the elections had been won by the MUL through unfair means.
Ibrahim brought his sons together and informed them of the Maulana’s plan. ‘Maulana’s suggestion is almost like a firman of god for me. You all should join his jammaat and work hard to improve your community,’ said Ibrahim. They were all excited at the thought of the youth of the neighbourhood uniting under one banner. And once the idea had Ibrahim’s approval, all the families in the neighbourhood were keen to have their sons participate. It was decided that the group be called ‘Young Party’, appropriately. They began with activities like decorating the neighbourhood for festivals and organising rallies. Then, the Maulana’s idea caught the fancy of the neighbourhood and the numbers of the Young Party swelled to mammoth proportions.
However, there was a setback; the Bombay High Court dismissed the Maulana’s plea. The Maulana took his appeal to the Supreme Court but the apex court too upheld the decision of the High Court. Dejected and disappointed, the Maulana then withdrew from all further activities of the Young Party and gradually faded away from public involvement with electioneering in the area.
But in the meanwhile, the Young Party’s popularity had given rise to another idea in the mind of young Dawood. Canny as ever, he saw this as a golden opportunity to showcase his leadership skills and influence the other youth to do his bidding.
Pakhmodia Street and Musafirkhana earned another leader with the loss of one. There was now a board at the beginning of the street proclaiming it as the territory of the Young Party, one that was led by the formidable Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar.
Dawood was going past Kedy company, a high-rise in Nagpada, on his motorbike when he saw Karim Siddiqui’s nephew rushing towards him. The youth, a very close friend of Dawood’s, was severely bruised. He stopped Dawood and said to him, ‘Hamid ne phir mujhe peeta Dawood bhai [Hamid thrashed me again, Dawood bhai]!’Dawood was enraged. The brothers Hamid and Majid were annoying him to no end. Hamid, a brawny Pathan who believed he could take on anybody and Majid, a drug addict who was wasting away in the by-lanes of Dongri, were flies Dawood could have swatted away long ago, but for Baashu Dada, who enlisted their services. And no matter what, Dawood still had respect for Dada; not because of any of his personal attributes but because of the mutual respect between Ibrahim Kaskar and Baashu. Nevertheless, it was time to put Hamid in his place. He asked Siddiqui to get on his bike and they sped off towards Hamid’s home.
Face-to-face with Hamid, Dawood could not control his temper at Hamid’s behaviour.
‘Behanchod, tu bahot bada shaana ho gaya hai kya bambai ka [sisterfucker, you’ve become too big for your boots]!’ he roared.
‘Nahin Dawood bhai, kuchch ghalat fehmi hui hai [no, Dawood bhai, there seems to have been a misunderstanding],’ Hamid quivered.
‘Ek baat sun le, Baashu Dada ka moonh dekh kar maine tujhe baksh diya, nahin toh tera kheema banake rakh deta [now remember one thing: I’ve spared you all this while only because of Baashu Dada, else I surely would made mincemeat of you],’ Dawood thundered.
Hamid had seen his death in Dawood’s eyes. He knew very well that he would have been dead meat but for Baashu’s name, a veritable suit of armour for him.
Fuming at his inability to do anything to Hamid, Dawood stormed out. Meanwhile, Hamid started thinking quickly. He knew that sooner or later the news would reach Baashu’s ears. Wouldn’t it be better if he, Hamid, was the source? With all this and more on his mind, he went to Baashu’s darbar. Baashu was trying to enjoy what was left of one of the tournament’s matches. He was already annoyed by the Maulana’s uppity behaviour and now here was Hamid.
‘Dada, Dawood ne aapko maa-behen ki gaali di [Dada, Dawood hurled some rather tasteless abuses at you]!’ Hamid exclaimed.
An enraged Baashu, unable to bear the idea that someone could have the temerity to insult him, let alone a young boy on the rise, rose from his charpoy immediately. He asked for Ibrahim, Rahim, and Sabir to be summoned to the baithak. His football match had now completely gone for a toss!
Ibrahim, Rahim, and Sabir, still a lad, came, and stood in front of Baashu, surrounded by the don’s men.
‘Dawood ne mujhe maa-behen ki gaali di Ibrahim. Sambhalo apne chhokre ko [Dawood has abused me Ibrahim, you better keep a check on your son]!’ Baashu raged.
‘Galti ho gayi hogi ladke se Dada. Maaf kar dijiye [he’s made a mistake Dada, please forgive him],’ Rahim ventured.
‘Galti [mistake]!” the don bellowed.
Addressing Sabir he said, ‘Jab tere baap ke paas tum log ko khilane ke bhi paise nahi the tab maine sahara diya. Aur ab tum log sab saale behenchod log, usi thaali ko gaali deta hai! Tum logon ne mere ehsaanon ka yeh sila diya hain, is tarah namakharaami karke [I helped your father when he had nothing to feed you all. And today, you people bite the hand that feeds you]!’
‘Dafa ho jao yahan se [get lost]!’ he said, with a wave of his hand.
Ibrahim and Sabir walked out clutching what little dignity remained while Rahim stood where he was. The word ehsaan (favour) and namakharaami (disloyalty) kept ringing in the ears of the father and son.
‘Aapko chhote ladke ko aisa nahi bolna chahiye tha Dada [Dada, you shouldn’t have spoken to the little boy like that],’ Rahim reasoned.
‘Chhota ladka? Usike chhote bhai ne meri maa-behen ka naam apni gandi zubaan se nikala aur main kya tamasha dekhta rahun? Nahi Rahim! [Little boy? The little boy’s younger brother abused me and you expect me to be a mute spectator? No Rahim!]’ Baashu raged.
Sabir, meanwhile, returned home and began to sob. While it was well-known that the family of fourteen often faced difficulty in getting by, because of Ibrahim’s popularity in the neighbourhood no one had ever spoken a word in public about it. Now the fact that Baashu had insulted his father to this extent was unbearable to Sabir, and he could not control his tears
. Ibrahim himself maintained a stunned silence and a stoic face. Dawood heard of the series of events from Sabir and his blood boiled. He could not bear to see his father and brother insulted and dishonoured like this by another man. Vowing revenge, he vowed to bring the empire and the pride of Baashu Dada crashing down.
11
David Versus Goliath
Dawood’s presence in Dongri was growing increasingly powerful. A mere lad, he had already surprised people with his adeptness and ability to plan meticulously with a sharp mind. The Young Party was also gaining fame and their activities did not stop at the Eid-e-Milad processions they had begun with. They were now notorious for extortion. Along with Hanif Kutta and Sayed Razi alias Rajji, they extorted money from all and sundry under the pretext of meeting expenses for weddings and funerals in poor families. The moneyed would be asked to ‘contribute’ to the wedding coffers or funeral expenses of the poor, or else face Dawood’s ire. Playing partly on the emotions of the people and partly on their fear, Dawood and his pals created the perfect con strategy.
The Young Party, of course, had been created to further the aims of Maulana Zia-ud-Din Bukhari. However, not only was Bukhari no more involved with the Young Party, but the party itself had become a front for criminal activities, albeit of a non-violent nature. It was around this time, circa 1974, that Ibrahim Kaskar and Sabir were humiliated by Baashu. The problem that faced the young Dawood was very grave. He truly loved his father and brother. No matter his general impunity, where his father and brother were concerned, he was generally with his head bowed in their presence out of fondness and respect. Baashu, a mere goon, had shamed both of them and even listed all the favours he had done for Ibrahim over the years. The more Dawood thought about it, the more he regarded it a faulty assessment.
Dongri to Dubai - Six Decades of the Mumbai Mafia Page 8
