For them, 5, 000 rupees for one careful pulling of the trigger at point blank range was a lucrative offer. Of course this was risky but for a ruffian who had been loafing around the whole day and had to listen to a volley of abuses at home for not making a decent living, any risk that could boost his self-esteem was worth it.
Becoming a hitman for Shakeel Bhai not only gave these boys quick money but earned the appreciation and trust of the great Shakeel Bhai, who was a right-hand man of the legendary Dawood Bhai, and all this gave the young gangsters an aura of power.
Shakeel had started hiring and Arif Khan, Asif Shaikh, and Feroz Sarguroh became some of his boys, barely 17 or 18 years old when Shakeel hired them and gave them guns. The biggest surprise came in the form of Feroz Sarguroh, who became a dreaded sharpshooter in the underworld and was soon known as Feroz Konkani.
Hailing from a conservative Muslim family, the good-looking Konkani lad had begun his career at the age of 16. He had caught Shakeel’s attention with his first crime: slitting the throats of two Mathadi workers at Masjid Bunder in January 1993. The gruesome killing of two Hindu labourers triggered the second round of rioting in Mumbai, which was also much more violent then the first wave of bloodshed soon after the demolition of Babri Masjid in December 1992.
Feroz joined the Shakeel gang and became the most daring and fearsome sharpshooter it had. After Feroz, other teenage Muslim shooters like Shakir Durbar and Ibrahim Shaikh joined the gang but Feroz’s track record remained unsurpassed. Shakeel managed to wield terror and fear in the hearts of Mumbai’s business community. And Feroz had earned the nickname of the ‘youngest killing machine’: here was the new generation of Mumbai gangsters.
The killing of BJP leader Ramdas Nayak, flanked by his security men, in broad daylight at a Bandra junction was one of the most gruesome murders recorded by the Mumbai police.
It was just another day on the busy Hill Road in Bandra on the morning of 25 August 1994. MLA Nayak left home in his Ambassador at 10 am, accompanied by police constable B.M. Tadvi, who had been supplied to him as protection by the Bombay police. As the car pulled into the main road and turned towards Bandra’s SV Road, nobody noticed the two men walking towards them. At least, not until the shooting began. It was only then that people noticed that the two, later identified as Feroz Konkani and Javed Sayed alias Soni, had AK-47 rifles in their hands which were spewing bullets at Nayak’s car. Even as the car’s windshield shattered and people began screaming, Tadvi came rolling out of the car, armed and ready with a sten-gun, and returned fire. However, his gun was no match for the assault rifles used by militant organisations around the world, and he too was riddled with bullets.
‘Gurnam, John, bhaago!’ Feroz shouted to other accomplices who were standing across the street from Nayak’s house. One of them escaped in a waiting Fiat, while another escaped on a motorcycle. He and Soni then hijacked a passing autorickshaw and fled the scene.
Investigations later revealed that gangster Chhota Shakeel had given the contract to kill Nayak to one Sajid Batliwala who, in turn, had given the assignment to Fero, the dreaded contract killer. Batliwala was also instrumental in supplying firearms to Konkani and his hit squad. Nayak was an elected councillor of the BMC and Shakeel felt that his activities were causing harm to the Muslim community.
Feroz had humiliated the police; they now had to get him to retrieve their lost prestige. With a string of murders to his name, Feroz was finally tracked down and arrested at the Blue Diamond hotel in Bangalore in October 1995. However, in 1998, he escaped in a daring jailbreak, in broad daylight. His men opened fire at the police while Feroz was being brought out of the JJ Hospital to be taken back to the Thane Central Jail after a CT Scan. Police constable P.D. Kardile lost his life in the firing. Until his arrest, Feroz was involved in eighteen killings, of which sixteen were at the behest of Shakeel.
By then Shakeel had understood the success of finding young boys with no police records and training them to kill. As there was no dearth of unemployed Muslim boys willing to emulate Konkani, the business of bloodshed continued unabated and Shakeel seemed to have benefited by it the most.
Shakeel had managed to establish himself and consolidate his position in the gang. Within months of Rajan’s exit, Shakeel had established an all-pervasive presence in the D Syndicate. Dawood, who initially doubted how capable Shakeel would be as second-in-command, was relieved that his business would not take a beating.
However, there was one man who did not like Shakeel’s success and his being considered Dawood’s alter ego. This was Dawood’s brother Anees. Anees had often made snide remarks about Shakeel and tried to ridicule him, but Shakeel could not retaliate, as he knew that Dawood would not tolerate any action against his brother.
Anees liked Dawood’s style of functioning—to take a back seat and delegate authority and choose someone as the CEO. You get your job done smoothly, without dirtying your hands. And if a particular job gets botched, it can easily be disowned; you blame it on some incompetent men in the gang hierarchy and placate the affected party, who readily buy the explanation, knowing the gang and the sub gangs within the gang.
Shakeel had several detractors and rivals within the gang. While Shakeel could stand up to his other competitors, he could not do much against Dawood’s sibling, who himself nursed ambitions of heading the D Syndicate. He liked the idea of delegating to get the job done, sitting back while the dirty work was done, and Shakeel was only in his way, as far as this was concerned. Also, Anees never liked Shakeel and had had a good equation with Rajan. In fact, he was the only sibling or D gang member who kept in touch with Rajan for a couple of years after his escape from Dubai.
However, Anees also wanted a Man Friday, who could be his ace manager, keep his coffers flowing with cash and promote his name in India. He looked around amongst the members of the gang and did not find anyone who would fit the bill.
Meanwhile, Abu Salem Ansari, who had been on the run since the serial blasts in Mumbai, had landed in Dubai. Salem had been accused of delivering AK-47s and grenades to film star Sanjay Dutt at his residence at Ajanta in Pali Hill, Bandra, in what was to become an infamous takedown of the popular Bollywood star.
When the Mumbai police launched a crackdown on all the Dawood men, Salem too appeared on the police radar. He sped off from Mumbai and reached his village Sarai Mir in Azamgarh. After having spent some time in Lucknow, from where he kept calling Anees Bhai, he was called to Dubai. Once in Dubai he realised that he was on his own and needed someone powerful close to him. Perhaps it was Abu Salem’s good fortune that Anees was trying to find a confidante. Since he had no godfather in Mumbai or Dubai, Salem thought he would adhere to Anees Bhai’s diktats and make him his godfather, growing in the mafia hierarchy. Salem began kow-towing to Anees and bragging about his own exploits in Mumbai to impress him.
As Anees had no other option and Salem seemed sincere and loyal, he decided to give him a chance. Thus is many a collaboration born.
12
Rise of the Minions
Salem stood before a life-sized mirror. It was as if he was inexorably drawn to his reflection. He could not take his eyes off his face.
Salem had recently shaved off his moustache and beard and now sported a clean-shaven look. While in Mumbai, he had sported long tresses and a Muslim beard and moustache, a legacy from his Azamgarh days. His devout Muslim look was complete with a fez cap, giving him the aura of a highly religious Muslim youth.
But when he made an escape from Mumbai, on the run to Hyderabad, Lucknow, and Delhi before eventually landing up in Dubai, he kept changing his appearances. Once he shaved, he was transformed—and he had fallen in love with his new look.
Salem thought that his handsome face was now befitting that of a Bollywood hero. Thus was born Mumbai’s most narcissistic, self-worshipping gangster, who loved his looks so much that he decided to earn the epithet of
‘the handsome’ ganglord.
Salem had seen lot of balding dons—Chhota Shakeel, Anees Bhai, Noora, Tiger Memon—and shuddered at how ugly and repulsive they were. He was not going to let himself go like that. Salem began to pay attention to the clothes he wore, colognes he used, and the branded leather belts and shoes completed the picture. Witnesses who lived with him for years say that he was obsessed with his looks to such an extent that he used to brush his hair every hour He was also extremely particular about his manicure and pedicure sessions—something perhaps no other mafia don had ever paid any attention to.
Abu Salem Abdul Qayyum Ansari belonged to a family of conservative Muslims, who hailed from a small hamlet of Sarai Mir some 30 km from Azamgarh in Uttar Pradesh. His father Abdul Qayyum Abdul Hafiz Ansari was a respectable lawyer in his village and wanted his children to study. Known as Qayyum Vakil, he had never been able to make it big in the legal circuit. After Qayyum’s death, Salem’s mother Jannatun Nisa began making beedis to make both the ends meet.
Salem, being the second eldest, had attended school until Class IX, but after his father’s death in a road accident, he had dropped out and begun looking for work. Salem and his elder brother Abu Hakim both started working as bike mechanics as their two other brothers Abu Jaish and Abu Lais were still in their teens. Initially, he tried to work in Delhi for a few months but finally moved to Mumbai.
In Mumbai, his uncle gave him a small stall in Arasa Shopping Centre and allowed him to sell belts and moonlight as a real estate broker. It was during these stints as a broker that Salem came in touch with Anees Bhai. Once indoctrinated into the gang, he followed any instructions Anees gave him slavishly. After a few assignments, Anees began using him as a top confidante, and after the communal riots of 1993, assigned him the major task of delivering guns and grenades to Sanjay Dutt.
Salem almost fainted when he was told to pay a visit to Dutt at his bungalow at Pali Hill. Salem, like all the village youth, was star struck. He delivered the deadly package of weapons and explosives but did not lose the opportunity to hug the star several times. He could never forget his encounter with Dutt: it was his first meeting with a film star. What is more, Dutt was a reigning superstar and son of the legendary actor and member of Parliament Sunil Dutt. Back in his village, Salem could never have dreamt of such a moment. The sheer proximity to Dutt had boosted his ego. And Dutt had welcomed him warmly, like a friend and brother.
Much later, when he reached the shores of Dubai, the naive Salem realised, of course, that it was not his personality that had made Dutt warm to him; rather his connection with the Bhais or the dons. The man who has a gun owns the world, he thought to himself.
He thought that if he could become powerful, the whole of Bollywood would pay obeisance to him. Salem decided that if Shakeel could be the right-hand man for Dawood Bhai, he could acquire a similar status with Anees Bhai. All he had to do was handle this smartly.
Anees had told him once, ‘Hamara dhanda, darr ka dhanda hai aur Dawood bhai ne sabke dil mein darr bitha diya hai [our business is the business of fear and Dawood has planted fear in everyone’s hearts].’ Salem looked at him replied, ‘Bhai, main samajh gaya, Dawood ke darr se yeh dhanda chalta hai [Bhai, I’ve understood what you’ve said about Dawood and fear].’
Salem got down to work seriously. He knew that in Mumbai real estate builders and Bollywood were two money churners. If he kept them scared, he could fill his coffers for three generations.
The year 1995 began with a bang for the Anees-Salem combine. Just three years ago, Prime Minister Narasimha Rao with the help of the then Finance Minister Manmohan Singh had opened up India’s economy, after years of permit raj. He had thus rendered India an open economy, after years of protectionist policies and regulatory constraints. The impact was far reaching as private players were allowed into many new spheres. The doing away of an over-bureaucratised system which inhibited competition, innovation, efficiency, and economic growth was appreciated everywhere, and the resultant free flow of capital brought with it tremendous opportunities. The first sector that saw plenty of activity was the building and construction industry.
And where could this increased activity be evidenced more than Mumbai? Mumbai, the commercial capital of India, was one of the first cities to show evidence of the effects of liberalisation. Construction activities began everywhere. To Salem, it was clear that the builders were minting money, not just in Mumbai but also in the city’s outskirts. Western suburbs extended to as far as Mira Road, Nalla Sopara, Vasai, and Virar and the Central Exurbia stretched from Mumbai’s neighbourhood city, Thane, to Mumbra, Dombivali, and Kalyan.
Salem asked his boys to do some scouting around the city and got hold of some builders’ phone numbers. A string of calls were made to builders across the city and Salem, with his unpolished Mumbai lingo and a smattering of Urdu, spoke with a distinct Uttar Pradesh inflection, managed to frighten a lot of builders.
Salem had managed to instil fear in the hearts of the Mumbai’s business community. Several builders began loosening their purse strings. The initial flow of cash from Mumbai boosted Salem’s morale and he began to exult. Most of all, Anees was pleasantly shocked; he could never have anticipated that a man from the back and beyond of Azamgarh could fatten his kitty by actually shaking up Mumbai’s rich and knocking some money out of them.
Intimidation thrives on violence and bloodshed. Yet Salem had not shed any blood so far; he had been milking the Dawood terror factor. He realised that he did not have any foot soldiers to execute his diktat, if some builder were to defy him. Salem’s thoughts went to the rampant joblessness and poverty in his hometown, Azamgarh.
The north Indian provinces of Uttar Pradesh and Bihar are notorious for their lawlessness. There is hardly any development, corruption is rampant, and administration non-existent. Abject poverty has driven and continues to drive youngsters to crime.
In the wake of this convenient demand-supply situation, Salem hit on the idea of importing sharpshooters from his hometown, which though not ingenious was radically unconventional. Most of the village youth had used a country-made revolver, known as a katta, at some point of time. A katta is a handgun moulded in a small-scale iron-welding unit and is good for a single shot. After a bullet is fired, it cannot be reloaded and used again. The katta industry is a cottage industry in many Bihar and UP villages and the weapon comes in handy for village ruffians looking to intimidate lesser mortals.
Salem, who had grown up amongst street thugs, knew most of these youth could pull a trigger and run from the scene if required. Any of them could be hired for a paltry amount of 3,000 to 5,000 rupees. If the shooter were smart enough to duck the police, he would be paid his remuneration and if he got arrested, there was no liability for Salem.
Salem became the first ganglord to import shooters from Uttar Pradesh. These boys were told to fire at the door of the builder, shatter the glass pane, or just barge into the office, brandish the gun, and scare the manager. Filmmakers Subhash Ghai and Rajiv Rai were threatened in this manner. Later these boys were also assigned the task of shooting to kill. As the boys had no police records in Mumbai, the cops were totally taken aback by these new entrants in the world of crime.
A spate of shooting incidents was reported across the city and the cops were reduced to mere spectators. The only clue to these killings and shootouts were Salem’s own claims to his victims, while boasting about his exploits.
Builder Pradeep Jain was one such victim who was targeted by Salem. Salem had wanted a share in a property that Jain was developing, but he refused to buckle under Salem’s threats. On 7 March 1995, Pradeep Jain was shot dead by Salem’s men outside his Juhu bungalow. Jain was regarded as a top builder in the city, and his killing established Salem as a ruthless don and announced his arrival on the crime scene.
The killing also had a suitable impact on the business community. Everyone began to
pay up quietly. This attracted other lumpen elements towards the Salem gang. The two most dreaded shooters who joined Salem immediately were Salim Shaikh alias Salim Haddi (haddi means bone, and the nickname was used because of his reed-thin physique) and even a suspended police constable, Rajesh Igwe. Igwe was associated with the local arms division II of the Mumbai police and had been suspended on corruption charges. Igwe, who was proficient at handling all kinds of weapons, wanted a comfortable and lavish life. He joined the gang and began working for Salem. It was unprecedented in Mumbai’s mafia history for a policeman to join a mafia gang and execute killings at the instance of a ganglord. But Salem now had this unlikely new gang member on his side.
Salem began to expand his circle of victims; the next person he chose was Omprakash Kukreja of Kukreja builders in Chembur. The police dossier describes Kukreja as a Rajan sympathiser and financier, while the newspaper reports claimed that Kukreja contributed 50 lakh rupees every year to the annual Ganeshotsav celebrations organised by Sahyadri Krida Mandal at Tilak Nagar. When Salem’s men reported this to him, he began calling Kukreja for protection money.
However, Kukreja refused to pay up and increased the security cover at his Chembur office instead. Salem asked his two ace shooters Salim Haddi and Igwe to punish Kukreja for his impudence. The two stormed Kukreja’s office on 18 September 1995 and not only killed the builder but also other employees who were present in the office, including Deepak Bilkiya and Mohammad Ansari.
But the Mumbai police also killed both the shooters, in the notorious ‘encounter’ style. Igwe’s death was particularly important; other ex cops in this lawless city would get the message.
The police failed to detect the Kukreja murder case. After a yearlong investigation, they had to close the case on 11 November 1996 classifying it under ‘A’, meaning true but undetected.
Dongri to Dubai - Six Decades of the Mumbai Mafia Page 28
