Thus late in the evening of Sunday, 7 March, Tiger found himself facing a dilemma. The logistics of training these new recruits in Islamabad ruled that option out. Tiger had no time to accompany them to Dubai or Islamabad, and now one of the smugglers, Ejaz Pathan, who had been involved in organizing the Dubai training, was asking for money. Tiger would have had no qualms about sidelining Pathan, except that the man might try to blackmail him or squeal to the authorities. He could not afford to jeopardize the security of the mission at this stage.
He decided he would train them near Bombay itself. This was extremely risky, and would not be as thorough as the training the first group had received, but he had no choice left in the matter. He had explored the coastal belt of Raigad extensively, and he knew that there were several deserted spots in the hills that could be used for training. He decided to escort the boys to Raigad the very same evening.
He asked Chikna to get them together. Chikna summoned the new group: Moin Qureishi, Mohammed Iqbal, Sardar Shahwali Khan, Bashir Electrician and Parvez Shaikh. He announced that they would be leaving Bombay that very night. After performing the taravih namaz, mandatory during Ramazan, they left in a jeep with Abdul Gani Turk, Tiger’s driver, at the wheel.
They reached Panvel, seventy kilometres from Bombay, soon after midnight. There, Gani halted next to a shining red Maruti 1000. Tiger was standing with his back towards the car; seated inside were Anwar Theba and Yeba Yaqub. Tiger acknowledged the new arrivals and took them for tea at an Udipi hotel, where he often stopped. Afterwards, they took off again in the early hours of Monday morning.
The traffic was heavy on the National Highway (NH) 17. Near the Bombay–Goa highway, they came to a crossing. One fork led to Mahad and Alibaug, while the other, which they took, went towards Mhasla, Srivardhan, Shekhadi and Dighi. It had been a long night. By the time they reached Mhasla, they had travelled some 250 kilometres. The streets of this predominantly Muslim township were filled with youths wearing fezzes and elders with flowing beards even at this early hour of the morning. The cars pulled off the road at a roadside eatery at 5 a.m., time for sehri.
The group of ten occupied two tables and ordered kheema paratha, beef trotters, boiled eggs and cups of tea. They were joined by Tiger’s aides and landing agents from the vicinity: Phanse, Parkar, Ishaq Hajwane, Hamid Dafedar and Shahnawaz Hajwane.
The first spot where they stopped was Manjiv Ghat. But as there seemed to be too many people around even at that early hour, they decided to move on. They headed towards Sandheri-Bhorghat, a small village of fourteen houses scattered over a large plateau, surrounded by lush hills. The road to Sandheri was a steep incline with several hairpin bends. The cars reached the village at 6.30 a.m. Local people were proud of the fact that a song and dance sequence for a Hindi film had once been shot there. Tiger had chosen this spot for a different kind of shooting.
The group did their fajr namaz, as dawn broke through the grey sky. They folded and put away their mats. From the boot of the Maruti 1000, three cricket stumps and green military-type bags were pulled out. Chikna set up the stumps so that chance passers-by would think they were picnickers playing cricket. From the bags, AK-56 rifles and grenades were brought out.
Tiger walked over to the edge of the cliff and instructed the five new recruits on how to hurl hand grenades. ‘Look here now,’ he ordered. He concentrated all his strength in his right arm as he threw a grenade into the ravine. A loud bang followed, which left a huge crater, and terrified flocks of birds flew out. A tree slowly keeled over under the impact.
Tiger handed a green grenade to Bashir and asked him to hurl into the ravine. Bashir threw it nervously. The grenade did not travel very far but landed nearby with a deafening sound. Tiger frowned; the boy was a real novice. ‘Saale, kabhi cricket nahin khela kya ?’ he chided. ‘Practice throwing small stones. Once you know how to throw, then you can move on to bombs.’ He moved on to the next trainee.
After about an hour, Tiger announced that he would teach them the basics about guns. He showed them how to handle a gun, how to hold it, how its butt should nestle in the crook of the arm, how to unlock the safety catch and depress the trigger with the index finger. He told them how to brace themselves against the recoil. He also taught them how to replace the magazine once it emptied.
Using the cricket stumps as targets, Tiger unleashed a hail of bullets. The firing practice continued for several hours. Each trainee was allowed to shoot a few rounds from an AK-56.
Fortunately for them, no vehicle came that way. Few local tribals passed by on foot, but none dared to stop: the sight of city people frolicking with guns was intimidating.
As the sun reached its peak, they were all exhausted. They had travelled all night and toiled all morning in the sun, and their exhaustion was heightened by the Ramazan prohibition on food and water. Tiger, satisfied that the youths had learnt something of the basics, announced that they would pack up and return.
Descending through the same sharp curves and bends, they drove through Mhasla and then exited towards the narrow route to Mangaon. From there, they moved onto the NH 17. Since it was afternoon, the traffic was thin. They reached the city before sundown. Moin and Iqbal were dropped at the Kalanagar junction and the rest near Mahim Dargah.
4
The Final Plan
Badshah Khan’s Story
Barely a couple of hours after I reached home from Dubai, my phone rang. I reached for the receiver with a vague sense of foreboding. As I expected, it was Chikna. He summoned me to meet him near the Hindustan Soda Factory, our usual meeting place, at 9 p.m.
At the gate of the factory, I met Bashir Khan and Chikna. I was not in a very good mood. I wanted to smash Chikna’s face. Perhaps he could tell. He tried to placate me. ‘Badshah, actually it’s Tiger bhai who wanted to meet you.’
I glared in reply.
A red Maruti 1000 pulled up. Tiger bhai rolled down the window and told us to get in. We complied without asking any questions.
We stopped briefly at Dongri, the cradle of the Muslim Mafiosi in Bombay, where men like Dawood bhai had been nurtured into dons. Then Tiger bhai drove us to the Hotel Taj Mahal at Colaba, one of the five-star hotels in the city, situated directly opposite the Gateway of India. We entered the awe-inspiring facade of the old building and Tiger led us to the coffee shop, Shamiana. It was 10.45 p.m.
We couldn’t help but act awkwardly, and our conversation was artificial and nervous. I had never imagined being at such a place. The steward came over to take our orders and of course it was Chikna who made a fool of himself. The steward politely inquired what each of us would like to have—coffee, tea, cappuccino. Before he could finish, Chikna interjected, ‘Cappuccino—is it a Chinese dish?’ The man smiled and explained that it is actually a kind of coffee. We all laughed out loud, drawing irritated stares from our neighbours. Only Tiger bhai was at ease, as if he was a regular here. The steaming cups arrived and we all began sipping coffee.
Finally, after half an hour of idle conversation, two men, Farooq and Mushtaq Tarani, joined us and the meeting came to life. Tiger bhai began talking animatedly about the demolition of the Babri Masjid and the communal riots in Bombay—the loss of life, the atrocities.
After a while Tiger bhai decided to take Farooq aside, and they talked privately for over twenty minutes. Then Tiger bhai came and told us that we would all conduct a reconnaissance of the spots slated as targets right away. As we left the hotel, the guard saluted us. I suppose that this was standard practice at the Taj, but it so startled me that I looked around to make sure he was saluting us, and not some wealthy guest.
We all piled into Farooq’s blue Maruti 1000. He first drove us to the Bombay Municipal Corporation (BMC) building opposite VT. We simply sped by in the car, just glancing at the building. Tiger bhai told us to return for a detailed survey later. ‘Badshah, it is your responsibility,’ he said. Then we drove to Dalal Street and had a quick look at the old and new buildings of the share market.
After that Farooq dropped us back at the Taj, and he and Tarani took their leave.
Tiger was going back to his house at Mahim and we accompanied him part of the way. He told us that one more soldier would be inducted into our army. He was called Sardar Shahwali Khan, and like us, he was eager to take revenge. Somehow, though, I didn’t feel I could trust Sardar. He had not been with us during our training in Pakistan. Chikna said, however, that he would make arrangements for Sardar’s training here in Bombay. Huh, I thought, that’ll be a tall order.
Next day, 5 March, after Friday prayers, Bashir Khan and I went to the BMC building. I was amazed at the lax security— this is the building which houses the city administration! We entered the building without being stopped or questioned. We get our daily water supply through BMC, they run the BEST buses and corporation hospitals—inefficiently—and look after the education of our kids, though ineptly. Besides, this building also contained the offices of some of the most insidious Hindu leaders, the ones who sustained their position by spilling the blood of my helpless brothers.
I walked to the first-floor offices of the BJP and Shiv Sena. The rooms were spacious and, I realized, easily accessible. Tiger bhai’s idea was to have a half-dozen trained commandos storm the building with AK-56s. Since security was minimal, I thought that the commandos would be able to reach the party offices unhindered. We’d be able to massacre the filthy bastards with bullets the way a BMC worker sprays pesticide on flies.
‘Badshah bhai, yeh to ekdum halva hai (This is really easy)!’ Bashir echoed my feeling. Excited we abandoned the idea of scouting other locales and rushed straight to Tiger bhai to report.
I had been so engrossed in these activities that I hadn’t paid any attention to my personal work for several days. So on Saturday, 6 March, I decided I needed to catch up on that and take some time off. But my holiday was not to be, for Chikna called me for a meeting that evening at a house in Hill Road, Bandra. This used to be the home of Shakil, to whom Tiger bhai had often entrusted the toughest tasks. The previous year Shakil had been killed when a team of customs officers raided his house. Tiger bhai was very shaken by his death, and now looked after Shakil’s sister Mubina Aapa, whom he also called baya (sister).
Bashir Khan
The people gathered there that evening were Tiger bhai, Chikna, Bashir Khan, Nasim Barmare, Bashir Electrician, Parvez Kelawala, Nasir Dhakla and Firoz Malik. There were also four new faces: Salim Rahim Shaikh and Mehmood Kaloo, who had worked with Tiger bhai earlier, and Moin Qureishi and Sardar Khan, who were among the five new people Tiger had told us he was planning to induct into our group. After an initial discussion that didn’t seem to lead anywhere, Tiger bhai took charge. He said that once we had decided what were the most vital spots in the city to hit, we should divide into groups and recce them. He asked us what we thought the targets should be. Suddenly I wanted to assert myself. Before anybody could say anything, I grabbed the initiative.
‘Tiger bhai,’ I blurted out, ‘I think Sahar International Airport and the Chembur oil refinery should be targets.’
‘Why?’ asked Tiger bhai.
‘If we can bomb even one airplane, the whole world will become aware of it,’ I said. ‘An explosion at the refinery will cause a huge fire. All of India will be shaken.’
‘Bahut risky kaam hai,’ Chikna said, peeved that I had the spotlight for a change.
Tiger bhai gave Chikna a withering look. ‘Badshah, your idea is great. Why don’t you find out if it’s really possible?’
‘Yes bhai, I will do that,’ I said.
‘Our goal is to shake the government,’ said Tiger bhai decisively. ‘Hence BMC, Mantralaya, the share bazaar, and Doordarshan should be our targets. Or, like Badshah said, the airport and refinery—it is a great idea. I think even five-star hotels should not be spared.’
‘How about the Sena Bhavan at Dadar?’ Sardar asked. He seemed to be a bright chap.
Tiger also seconded this idea. A short while later, we dispersed.
On 7 March, I borrowed Tiger bhai’s Bajaj scooter and left with Parvez Kelawala for a recce trip to Sena Bhavan. We carefully studied the layout and decided that the petrol pump next to it would be the best place to plant a bomb. Not only would Sena Bhavan be reduced to dust, in addition the fire from the petrol pump would annihilate the surrounding area.
From there we went to the airport. I drove the scooter to a newly constructed flyover, which led to the departure area. The top of the flyover served as a lovers’ lane. In the evening, couples would come and sit up there together. As I rode up the slope, I yearned for a girlfriend of my own. Just after the steep climb, next to the curve, I found a gap between the buildings. Through there I could see into the bay where they park planes. Three were just sitting there. I thought, what an uproar it will cause if we can blow up three planes!
On the way back, I told Parvez that Tiger bhai would probably want us to throw hand grenades to blow up the planes. Parvez shook with fear at this idea and said that he would rather do the job at Sena Bhavan than at the airport. After I dropped Parvez at Mahim, I picked up Nasir Dhakla and took him to the spot at the airport. I repeated the same spiel about hand grenades. It seemed to me that Nasir too was afraid.
Early that evening, Chikna again called a meeting. This time it was at Chikna’s brother Babloo’s house. Babloo was not there. Tiger bhai, Chikna, Bashir Khan, Salim Shaikh, Irfan Chougule, Tainur, Parvez, Nasir, Zakir Khan, Farooq Pawle, Sardar Khan and Niyaz were there. The flat was small, so some of us—Tiger bhai, Chikna, Sardar, Bashir, Tainur and I—sat inside while the others sat on the adjoining terrace.
Tiger bhai announced that the targets had been selected and finalized. ‘The first targets are the Air-India building at Nariman Point; the Bharat Petroleum oil refinery at Chembur; the share market at Fort; and the gold market at Zaveri Bazaar. Then there are five five-star hotels: the Sea Rock, the two Centaurs, Oberoi Sheraton and Taj Mahal; the top film theatres: the Metro, Regal, Excelsior, Sterling and Plaza; Shiv Sena Bhavan at Dadar; the BMC building at VT; Sahar International Airport; the RPO at Worli; and Mantralaya.’
When he finished, absolute silence prevailed in the room. All of us were watching Tiger bhai although he was staring into space and not looking at anyone. The intensity in his look sent shivers down my spine. For the first time it occurred to me that Tiger was not acting alone. He was, I began to believe at that moment, discussing this plan with others. After every meeting with us—I was suddenly sure—he referred back to some unseen and unknown High Command.
‘How can only a handful of people plant bombs at so many places?’ I asked.
Tiger bhai took his time in replying. ‘The bombing will be done in two stages. We will set time bombs at Air-India, the oil refinery, the share bazaar, the gold market, the five-star hotels, the movie houses, the passport office and Sena Bhavan. At the airport, hand grenades will be hurled to destroy airplanes. Similarly at BMC and Mantralaya, whoever is good at using a lambiwali (an AK-56) will storm these places and shoot down the important leaders.’ Tiger bhai’s eyes glowed brighter with each sentence he delivered. ‘Badshah.’
Hearing Tiger bhai say my name gave me a jolt.
‘Explain to everyone your analysis of the airport and BMC.’ ‘Yes, bhai.’ I could barely speak. I suddenly developed stage fright. I cleared my throat and explained that that there was a spot on the flyover from where the parked planes could be seen. When we had been there, there were three planes in the bay. I described the absence of security at the BMC, and how one could easily enter from a small gate in a lane opposite Azad Maidan and reach the party offices on the first floor. I suggested that a car should be kept waiting downstairs and four people could go upstairs. Two would take on the Shiv Sena office and the other two would finish off the BJP leaders. The entire job could be accomplished in five minutes flat.
When I finished, everybody was looking at me with a mixture of awe, admiration and also envy.
A short while later,
Tiger bhai indicated that the group discussion was over. He would now talk to people in small groups in the room while the rest waited on the terrace. Irfan Chougule, Tainur and Farooq Pawle made up the first group. Tiger spoke to them for few minutes, then they left. Then Chikna, Niyaz Ahmed, Bashir Khan and Sardar Khan were summoned. Tiger spoke to them for some time before they departed. He also spoke briefly to Salim, Parvez, Nasir and Zakir. Tiger bhai finally called me. When I stepped in, only then did I realize that he and I were alone.
‘Come, beta, sit,’ he said warmly. ‘I have the most important task lined up for you. Because I know you are the most intelligent of them all.’
I nodded.
‘You have to conduct a recce of the Chembur oil refinery. It has to be a thorough job. One proper bombing at the refinery could mean the total annihilation of Bombay’s northeastern region. Thousands of kafirs can be sent to hell in one stroke.’ He gazed intently at me.
I nodded again, but I could not hold Tiger bhai’s gaze for long. I looked away.
‘Chalta hoon, bhai,’ I said, more as a statement than permission to leave.
‘Khuda hafiz, beta,’ Tiger said.
‘Allah hafiz, bhai,’ I said, and walked out of the room.
On 8 March, Bashir Khan and I borrowed Tiger bhai’s Commander jeep. Tiger bhai was away for the day, training the new recruits. I took the wheel, Bashir sat next to me, and we drove towards the refinery. I entered the restricted area through the Dadar checkpoint. Four cops were standing there. One of them waved the jeep to a halt.
For a moment my heart skipped a beat. But then I thought, why am I nervous of men like these? I dipped a hand into the pocket of my starched kurta and fished out a ten-rupee note. As the policeman stealthily took the tenner, he gave me a sheepish grin and waved me on.
We sped along a narrow road with foliage on both sides. There was hardly any traffic, probably because it was a high security area. On my right were gigantic round tanks. As I was driving, I could only dart quick looks at them, but to my disappointment I read a hand-painted sign that said ‘water’. I came to a fork in the road and took the right turn. Here there were other huge tanks. I was sure these contained oil. They might have belonged to Bharat Petroleum or perhaps Rashtriya Chemical Fertilizer (RCF). I slowed down for a good look, and began searching for a suitable place to throw a grenade. Finally, I stopped to take a closer look, but to my disappointment realized that the tanks were too far from the road to target.