13
A Seed is Sown
A warm breeze braced with the crispness of January swept through the congested by-lanes of Dongri. Here the quaint old building of Dongri Police Station had stood for decades like a lone sentinel in one of the most infamous neighbourhoods of Bombay. Senior Police Inspector Ranbeer Likha sat at his desk.
Normally, he was lulled into drowsiness by the regular monotony of trains crossing Sandhurst Road and the domestic sounds emanating from Smith House, just outside Sandhurst Road station. But on this particular afternoon, Senior Police Inspector Likha had other things on his mind. He was listening to the patient voice of Head Constable Dilip Mane registering the complaint of a bakery worker who had been beaten up within an inch of his life for delaying the payment of the monthly instalment of his loan to the local Pathan, Asif Khan. It was the third such complaint being registered that afternoon.
Likha was silently seething at the sheer audacity of the Pathans, who engineered their machinations in plain sight of both civilians and police. Ordinary citizens, workers, and even traders were harassed by Pathans either for extortion because of property disputes or failure to return a Pathan’s interest on his money. This was his second stint at Dongri Police Station and the menace had only escalated since 1960.
As he mulled over the situation, he suddenly realised there might be a way out. He called Constable Gogte and asked him to make a visit to Musafirkhana at Pakmodia Street and ask Ibrahim Kaskar to visit him at his convenience.
Ibrahim might have retired as a mere Head Constable in the Crime Branch but his clout in the area was much more than that of a DCP or prominent social worker. And Ibrahim on his part was ever willing to help the needy and destitute, or his own department whenever they needed his services.
Ibrahim Bhai entered the police station and took his seat opposite Likha. It was Likha who seemed more in awe of the person who came in, rather than the other way round.
A concerned Likha got to the point quickly. ‘Ibrahim bhai, yeh kya ho raha hai? Karim miyan se baat karo. Kuch karna padega. Pathanon ki harkatein hadh se bahar hain ab! [Ibrahim Bhai, why is this happening these days? Please speak with Karim Lala. Something needs to be done. The Pathans’ antics are clearly going out of hand!]’
Ibrahim Kaskar shuffled anxiously as he sat before the visibly upset senior officer and tried to reassure him, saying, ‘Sahab, main baat karta hun Karim bhai se. Pehle bhi kahan hai maine unse, woh bahut qaedey ke aadmi hain… woh meri baat kabhi nahin taalte… yeh doosre log hain jo unki bhi nahin soonte hain, main kuch karta hun... jo ban sake. [I will speak with him. He is a good man. He will listen to me. Unfortunately there are some in his group who don’t even listen to him.]’
A reassured Likha exhaled, knowing all would be well again. Everyone knew how well-respected Ibrahim was in his community and that he had considerable clout even amongst the much-feared Pathans. While the rest of the police ranks quaked at the mention of dealing with the Pathans, the dignified Ibrahim Kaskar quietly enjoyed mutual respect even with the Pathan mafia.
The Pathan mafia were at the height of their rule over the city. Their sheer power and hold over the community ensured they stayed protected and camouflaged within it. They knew that as long as they could maintain that aura of menacing evil that mafia legends are made of, they would be on top. For them the government, authority, police, law of the land, and such things did not matter. What mattered was power and money. As Karim Lala often said, ‘Duniya ko mutthi mein rakhna seekho, haath kholo sirf paisa lene ke liye. [Learn to clench the world in your fist. Open your palm only when you have to receive money.]’
Likha knew Ibrahim was a man who could be held to his word, if he said that the Pathans’ behaviour would be kept in control. A mere remark to Ibrahim had several times in the past shown tangible results in terms of the period of peace that ensued, and these periods had often been timed perfectly to pacify the administration. This was, of course, the same administration which raised questions about the inaction of the police or its brutality at different times, depending largely on their stand in the Legislative Assembly.
This time, however, Ibrahim seemed to be losing his touch. Several afternoons came and went and there seemed no end to the Pathan menace. They had in fact become even more adamant and set on misbehaving. Once, Hamid Khan Pathan was summoned to Dongri. Hamid Khan was a monster at six and a half feet and his gait sent people around him scurrying, for fear of getting in his way. Amir Zada, Alamzeb, and their brothers were also slowly gaining notoriety in the area and inspiring similar fear.
Hamid Khan, for example, stormed into the police station and smashed a huge table at the station house office with his bare hands; lifting the massive table above his head, he then crushed it by dropping it to the floor. The whole posse of cops, including constables and officers, were reduced to gibbering spectators.
Likha realised that Ibrahim’s conferences with Karim Khan were not bearing the desired results. He dreaded that the situation was going to get out of hand if something drastic was not done, and done soon. He was after all in charge of his pack and his jurisdiction, and he was doing a very bad job of managing both, at the moment. It would not be long before someone else noticed and made him the scapegoat. As he sat there, however, twisting his mind into knots, the doors swung and Iqbal Natiq breezed in.
Mohammad Iqbal Natiq, then 35 years old, is the rare overnight success story of a self-made Bombay journalist. He edited and published an Urdu weekly called Raazdaar (The Confidante).
Journalism in India or Bombay was still in its infancy, at this time. However, the city never had a shortage of tabloids and newspapers serving a particular segment, region or an area. After working as a freelance journalist and columnist in established papers, Natiq launched his own paper from Dongri in 1969 at the age of 26, as was the tradition for aspiring young reporters like him.
In two years, Natiq managed to turn around his life, going from struggling journalist to successful newspaper owner and editor. From owning his own press to driving a spanking new white Ambassador, Natiq began to rise, rubbing shoulders with the elite.
‘In fact, my father provided so much luxury to us that despite being a six-year-old at the time, I could never travel in anything but his car, and would refuse to wear plastic slippers,’ recounts his 35-year-old commerce graduate son, Parvez Natiq, who is a successful professional photographer in the city today.
Raazdaar, which is a dismissible rag by any judgement, was a typical tabloid known for sensationalism and its habit of exposing local bigwigs. Operating from his first floor small house in the BIT Chawls near JJ Hospital, Natiq had managed to strike a good rapport with local cops and instil fear in the minds of the goons of the area; it was the language they spoke.
Natiq could enter any senior cop’s office unannounced and could recklessly write about any mafia biggie, thus acquiring the reputation of a righteous journalist who did not fear anyone, not even death.
One man who openly admired him and proudly proclaimed his friendship with him was Dawood. ‘Bande mein dum hain [this guy has some substance]’, he used to tell his friends. Both Natiq and Dawood hailed from Ratnagiri, but more resilient a bond than their common native place was the intrinsic chutzpah they both had. Natiq looked at Dawood as an underdog pitted against the mighty Goliaths of the time, comprising money bags like Baashu Dada and Haji Mastan and the cunning Karim Lala, Amirzada, and Alamzeb, both budding warlords in the Pathan syndicate.
Natiq was a frequent visitor in the darbar of Likha, in keeping with the long time motto of crime reporters: to be where the action is. On this visit, he took one look at Likha and saw all was not well. Not that it was to be expected; after all, Dongri was not Pleasantville. But what could make Likha look as especially perturbed as he did today?
A few mandatory pleasantries later, Iqbal asked, ‘Kya baat hai saab? Aap ki badli kaa order nikla
hain ya kuch aur baat hain? [What’s the matter? You’ve been issued a transfer order or something?]’
Likha replied with the ferocity of a man plagued by an issue, ‘Yahan kuch alag hota hai kya kabhi? Yeh behanchod Pathanon ne dimaag ki maa chod daali hain. Ye sale jaanwar Pathan kisiko peet dete hain ye aapas mein ladhte hain! Naak mein dam kar diya hai saalon ne! [Does anything different ever happen here? Either the Pathans trouble someone else, or they’re fighting amongst themselves. I’m so tired of them!]’
Iqbal gave a lopsided smile and reclined in his chair. His expression spoke more about his take on the issue than his tongue chose to. Almost like a quip, he said, ‘Sahab, Sholay.’
‘Sholay?! Dimaag ghar par chod aaye kya Iqbal? [Sholay? Have you lost your mind, Iqbal? ]’ Likha replied, more confused than ever.
Iqbal’s smile morphed from humorous to mysterious. ‘Loha lohe ko kaatta hai [you use iron to combat iron].’ he said.
The famous line that the handicapped Thakur Baldev Singh of Sholay had told the cop in the film had become so famous that whenever repeated, it conveyed its meaning in its perfect sense.
Understanding dawned. Sceptically, he asked, ‘Magar in Pathanon se kaun uljhega [but who will deal with the Pathans]?’
Iqbal spoke with authority, ‘Hai ek ladka, Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar [there is a boy, Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar].’
Likha recoiled at the name. ‘Tumhara matlab hai... Ibrahim bhai ka chokra... na baba na [You mean Ibrahim’s son? No way!]…’ he trailed off.
Iqbal nodded and rose to leave. As a parting shot to the already reeling Likha, he said, ‘Mohalle mein sab ko pata hai, bahut himmat hai usme [everybody in the locality knows that the boy is courageous].’
Now it was Likha’s turn to recline and contemplate. Yes, Ibrahim Kaskar’s son was a neighbourhood ruffian, a small-time hood, that much he knew, although this thought in itself was hard to digest. But to contemplate actually trying to use him as a pawn to uproot the Pathans? How on earth would he outwit and neutralise the Pathans? He was only a chit of a boy after all. Barely in his twenties and he had all the characteristics and trappings of a street fighter.
Dramatic dialogues from blockbusters were all very well, he thought, but Iqbal must have been out of his mind to even suggest such a thing. This was not reel life, where the underdog rookie upstages the reigning don. This was real life, where there was the reality of his age and position to consider. And the staid Ibrahim Kaskar’s son at that! Outrageous, Likha thought! Almost laughable! He dismissed it and went back to the game of ping pong ricocheting in his mind before Iqbal had entered.
‘Boys upstaging dons,’ he sniggered. He sighed. ‘Crime reporters and their imagination, never a combination to be taken seriously.’
Days passed and Likha remained gloomy over the deterioration of the law and order situation in his jurisdiction. Then, one day a small encounter scripted the destiny of both the cops and the crime bosses.
It had been an idyllic morning thus far, unmarred by anything unpleasant. As Likha was on a routine patrol, his jeep turned from Khada Parsi junction towards JJ Hospital. Soon he realised he was stuck in a massive traffic jam; the vehicles were honking and there was no way that his police jeep could inch forward. Furious, he jumped out and charged towards the source of the jam. He spotted a small group of people collected on the roadside, obviously enjoying some kind of spectacle. The crowd parted when they spotted a three star officer approaching in angry mode. What Likha saw made him speechless.
A Pathan was bleeding profusely from his head and mouth and a youth, his shirt torn, was hitting him left, right, and centre. ‘Now I have to break up these measly fights too’, he thought at first, resigned. But then he saw the boy; barely 20 years old, short in stature, and beating up a taller, stouter Pathan. The sight amazed him. Although Likha had no love lost for the Pathans, he actually felt sympathy for this man, who must have lost a lot of blood and self-esteem. Curious, he pulled the boy away by the scruff of his shirt and asked, ‘Aye, kya naam hai tera [hey, what’s your name]?’
The boy stared right back into his eyes and replied, ‘Dawood. Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar. Policewale ka bachcha hun main! [I’m the son of a cop]!’
Senior Police Inspector Ranbeer Likha froze. One word rang in his ears like a prophecy. ‘Sholay!’An idea took root in his mind.
Swiftly, he pulled him out of the crowd and shooed bystanders away. He felt invincible, as though he was riding on the most incredible luck ever. He could not think of anything other than the brilliant idea that had been planted in his head by Natiq and that he now knew would reach fruition by means of this boy in front of him.
Trying to collect himself, he asked Dawood, ‘Chal gaadi mein baith [let’s go sit in the car].’
Dawood eyed him quizzically and sat in the jeep quietly, but with an air of composure far beyond his years, calling another lad nearby and telling him, ‘Aye ghar pe bol thoda late ho jayega [inform them at home that I’ll be a little late today].’
‘Pathanon se ladhne ka bahut shauq hai tujhe [you like to fight with Pathans]?’ Likha asked, sitting next to him.
‘Shauq nahin sahib, zaroorat hain. Ladenge nahin toh mit jayenge [it’s not that I like to, if we don’t fight, we’ll perish],’Dawood tried to explain.
‘Aisa kuch kyon nahin karte joh tumhaari ladaee hamare kaam aa sake [why don’t you do something that makes your fight with the Pathans aid us as well]?’ Likha asked, tentatively.
‘Aisa kaise ho sakta hain, sahib [how is that possible]?’ Dawood said, curiously.
‘Wohi jo tu kar raha hain… qanoon haath mein liye bagair qanoon ki madad karo. Pathanon ko apne qabu mein kar lo. Tum mera yeh kaam karo. Baaki main sambhal lunga [Continue to do what you’re doing, but instead of taking the law in your hands, you can do it with the law by your side. Defeat the Pathans for me and I will handle the rest],’ Likha replied fiercely.
It was then that the balance of power shifted in Dawood’s mind; the baton passed from Likha to Dawood. Instead of being Likha’s main man, Likha would now be his main man. Such was the thinking of Dawood. So, the foundation of a new rule was laid, and at last, a don was officially born.
The police jeep had now slowed down and was about to turn left to move towards the Noorbaug junction for Dongri Police Station.
‘Theek hain saab gaadi roko, mera ghar aagaya… sochkar bolta hoon [Ok, sir stop the car as my house has come. I’ll think about this and get back to you],’ said Dawood. Likha was taken aback at the casual way in which the boy was addressing a senior police officer. The jeep halted at the intersection of the JJ Hospital. Dawood waved at Likha and crossed the road, heading home.
14
Beginning of the Bloodshed
Iqbal Natiq had an inherent dislike of the Pathans and their reprobate ways. For Dawood, Natiq was an embodiment of courage, one who lived correctly amongst the Pathans like Amirzada, Alamzeb, Ayub Lala, and Saeed Batla, who had a wayward way of life. He even defied them and consistently exposed their misdeeds. But Natiq failed to draw a line between bravery and recklessness. At last, his fight to unmask the truth took him too far.
Now, Dawood was Natiq’s main source for most of his stories. Dawood’s boys used to collect street level intelligence and paan shop gossip and pass it onto Natiq, who made headlines of these meaty tales. Most of the time, the stories were unverified plants but Natiq trusted Dawood enough to take the risk. He was never sued though he faced some subtle threats and hostility from the Pathans who held baithaks in the BIT compound.
With the police and the press on his side, Dawood was no more an underdog. Riding on the crest of invincibility, Dawood thought of testing waters for himself. He knew that until he toppled Baashu Dada from power, Baashu had been known as a kingmaker. Whichever party he supported won hands down and whomever he deserted could never win. Maulana Bukhari’s case was a classic example of
Baashu’s clout and power. And Dawood wanted to see if he could wield clout and power like Baashu did.Thus Dawood proposed the idea to Natiq of contesting the Lok Sabha elections.
Political aspirations should never be based on presumptions. True, he was a fantastic journalist and a known name in the circles, and this could make him a favourite for the common man. Natiq, however, made the mistake of assuming these under the delusion that he could win the election. He filed his nominations as an independent candidate for the sixth Lok Sabha elections in 1977.
Dawood thought that through his boys he would give Natiq the necessary support and ensure that he managed to win. This was a useful litmus test for the wannabe don.
Inevitably, however, Natiq lost the elections badly and could manage only 800 votes. Rajada Ratansingh Gokuldas of Bhartiya Lok Dal won comfortably.
Unfazed with Natiq’s loss, Dawood became certain he was still far from his desired peak of power. He now had to work harder to get there sooner. Natiq was a first timer; it was but natural that he might not perform so well, he convinced his candidate. The next time, the victory would be his, an explanation Natiq readily bought.But Natiq’s cup of woes had begun to brim. For the Pathans had decided he was a party pooper, following his actions after their gruesome killing of a man and the rape of his newlywed wife at Chawla Guest House, Ibrahim Rahimtullah Road.
It so happened that the Pathans used to hide their smuggled goods in the vicinity of the guesthouse. Ayub Lala and Saeed spotted the couple who were staying at the guesthouse on one of their errands. One night, they barged into their room and gangraped the woman for no other reason but sheer lust, and then killed her husband to leave no witnesses.
People were not willing to disclose the names of the killers, but Natiq went ahead and reported the whole story, disclosing everything. The cops managed to crack the case and arrested Ayub Lala and Batla as well as their aides, including Saeed.
Dongri to Dubai - Six Decades of the Mumbai Mafia Page 10
