Byculla to Bangkok

  Ajit shook him out of his angry trance.‘Amar, tu jaa. Leave, for the sake of our old parents.’

  But Amar refused to go alone. ‘Let’s leave together,’ he countered.

  Ajit was reluctant to leave his shop during business hours and without shutting it down, but he wanted to get Amar out of that place. He knew the men would return in bigger numbers and with more weapons, and he would rather lose a day’s business than his brother.

  The brothers reluctantly left the shop unattended, to save themselves from the goons. They were not even sure which gang the men were affiliated to: the Potya, Bablya or Gawli gang.

  The men returned as expected and when they did not find the Naik brothers, they ransacked the shop, flinging the vegetables on the ground, damaging their assets and taking whatever they found of any value. ‘If anybody tries to follow in the footsteps of the Naiks, even God will not help you,’ they warned the other vegetable vendors and shopkeepers.

  The Dadar vegetable market is just outside the Dadar railway station, on the western side. Even in the seventies and eighties, it did business worth crores. The wholesale market, the Vashi Agricultural Produce Market (APMC), was yet to be inaugurated and Navi Mumbai was still in its infancy. The city’s vegetable quota came from two main wholesale and retail markets, the Dadar and Byculla markets. Business was brisk here until the nineties, because they supplied vegetables to the entire city. And the ever-hungry mafia gangs operating in the Parel-Dadar stretch realized that they could partake of a slice of these considerable earnings merely by terrorizing the traders and vendors.

  The Potya and Bablya gang began making the rounds of the market, and started taking money from vendors as vargani (contribution) for various causes. It started off with the Sarvajanik Ganeshotsav (community Ganesh pandals) and continued with a string of other festivals like Holi, Diwali and Gokulashtami. The vegetable vendors and traders were at their wits’ end because the number of rounds and number of gangsters kept increasing every day – and everybody took the name of some don or the other. But they continued to hand them their hard-earned money, believing that it was better to be safe than sorry. Then came a time when the extortions became routine, festival or no festival.

  Those who protested too much were beaten up mercilessly, as a result of which they had to be hospitalized and were deprived of their earnings for days or weeks. A few such cases served as cautionary tales for those who were frustrated enough to think of raising their voices against the extortion.

  Amar had been coming to the shop only for a few weeks now; he was jobless and could not find any other vocation, so his father had asked him to sit at the shop. This was how he began to assist his brother Ajit, whom he worshipped despite their diff erences. Amar’s skill at maths meant he took charge of the accounts. That was when he discovered that some amount of money seemed to be going missing, without being accounted for, consistently. He did not think his brother had any vices, so he decided to ask him about it.

  Initially, Ajit was evasive. But when he realized Amar was not about to give up, he explained that he paid vargani to the gangs.

  One day, Amar showed his brother, with the use of simple arithmetic, that if the thugs took Rs 100 every week from every shopkeeper, they made more than Rs 20,000 from the 200-odd shops in the market. And, look at it this way, Rs 100 every week meant that a shopkeeper ended up paying between Rs 5000 and Rs 10,000 every year, depending on the festivals and the number of visits. The gangs were enriching themselves at the cost of the hapless bhajiwallas. ‘Why should we allow ourselves to be exploited?’ Amar argued. Ajit told him not to think about it.

  But Amar was furious at this gross injustice. How could a few men rule the market? He decided to stop paying vargani.

  Once or twice, when the goons came, Amar grumbled and was slapped hard or his kurta was torn. They pushed him, shoved him, abused him and humiliated him publicly. Often Ajit had to intervene and save his brother from their wrath.

  Ajit was a peace-loving man and he did not approve of Amar’s protests. He told Amar that he didn’t mind paying up if peace was maintained. ‘Why should we bell the cat,’ he often said, using the language of his English textbooks.

  But Amar was in no mood to listen. He began picking fights with the extortionists when Ajit was not around. He realized that the goons came from various gangs and no one else was protesting.

  Also, he decided to seek the help of the police. The cops acted against the Potya gang but turned a blind eye towards complaints against the Gawli gang, as they were receiving a hefty packet from them. In keeping with the tradition of corruption and injustice in the Mumbai police, they turned on the victim. Amar was soon making the rounds of police stations as the police were constantly coming to his shop, issuing summons for ‘questioning’ in some matter or the other. Then the summons began taking the shape of false cases slapped against him. In his absence, they manhandled Ajit and even bullied his younger brother Ashwin, who was still a teenager.

  Finally, Amar felt that he had to end this torture once and for all. He could not live a life of subjugation, it was not in his nature. He decided to raise his voice and his hand. He was going to stand up and if that meant confronting the enemy, he was willing to do it. His argument was that the thugs who harassed them were not God’s gift to mankind, but just ordinary men – with more failings than the rest.

  Amar first tried to garner support against the gangs. In true blue-collar labour-leader style, he spoke of ‘Kaamgaar anche ghaamache daam!’ (The worker’s valuable wages of sweat.) He had appropriated the slogan of Dr Datta Samant, who had used this line when he called for the cotton mill strike in 1982.

  The day that Amar used the chopper, Ajit had seen the Potya men on their rounds and quickly dispatched Amar on an errand. Amar had left obediently, unaware of his brother’s benign motives, but returned soon – to find Ajit being bashed up by five burly men demanding to know Amar’s whereabouts.

  The other vegetable vendors were terrified; nobody wanted to intervene. But Amar’s reaction was swift, with the result that from that day on, he became a marked man.

  At home, Maruti picked up a lathi and beat Amar until Ajit came between them.

  But back at the market, Amar’s carrot analogy had earned him fans among the vegetable vendors. It also earned him a handful of boys at his beck and call. His only motive had been to fight the highhandedness of the Gawli and Potya gangs, but it had reaped a legion of soldiers.

  Gawli and the Potya gang rightly presumed that there would soon be a mass mobilization of boys against them. If Amar was allowed to get away with it, it would set a bad precedent and dent their clout in the market. So they decided to act.

  Ashwin, the youngest of the Naik brothers, was seen as a soft target, so the Potya gang decided to abduct him and demand that Amar surrender. They wanted to beat him publicly, tame him, and teach him a lesson that others would learn too.

  Ashwin was kidnapped and taken into custody as a hostage. He was barely twenty years old then and understood that he was being used as bait in the bigger battle against his brother. If Amar was close to Ajit dada, Ashwin doted on Amar; he would never allow his brother’s enemies to score over him. He knew he had to do something before Amar was forced to submit himself to them.

  Ashwin was looked after well enough in the goons’ custody. He wasn’t blindfolded on his way to their hideout, nor was he tortured or beaten. The boy realized that the men would not harm him; they were just using him. At 4 a.m. the next day, he opened a small window and jumped down from the first floor. Fortunately, no one heard him slip out and he was not missed until later that morning.

  Back home, everyone was in a tizzy. Ashwin, as the youngest, was the darling of the family. Preparations were on for a full-scale attack when he arrived on their doorstep, unharmed. There was great jubilation, and Amar heaved a sigh of relief. He thanked God and then took a momentous decision. They had dared to touch his family and if he allowed this to continue, there was onl
y misery in store for them.

  It was better to take them on, he decided. He spoke to his father and Ajit, who for once seemed to concur with him. They had faced injustice and oppression. It was time to rise.

  Their tacit approval was given. It was limited, however, to self-defence. They did not know that revenge is a double-edged sword, and that the line between predator and prey can get blurred very easily. No exercise in self-defence is devoid of violence.

  Amar Naik started off by getting the boys on his side, anticipating an eventual face-off with the Potya and Gawli gangs. Vendetta was foremost in his mind. He had to do unto them what they had done to him. He had to rob them of their livelihoods and wealth and break their backbones. Matka dens and illicit liquor dens were big money in those days and they were run or patronized by the mafia. They were his first targets.

  SIX

  Gawli’s Gumption

  Arun Gawli had made his mark as an upcoming don in the areas of Byculla, Parel and Lalbaug and of course Dagdi Chawl, which was fast becoming the hub for all his nefarious activities. It is not clear if Gawli personally chose the place as his headquarters – like Haji Mastan had Bait-ul-suroor and Karim Lala had Tahir Manzil, near Novelty Theatre, or as Dawood and Sabir had chosen Musafirkhana.

  Regular meetings and durbars were held at the chawl, and Gawli presided over them all. The only other person in the vicinity who was both feared and respected by him was Rama Naik.

  Gawli had begun his operations here by employing a team for the black marketing of cinema tickets at Palace Cinema in Byculla in the mid-seventies. The operation was handled by Razaq Shaikh, who was responsible for ensuring the steady flow of money.

  Shaikh had been a close friend of Shridhar Shetty, the owner of a Udipi hotel in Byculla East, until a conflict of interest over a woman had caused an irreparable rift between the two. Shaikh was sure of Gawli’s support in his conflict with Shridhar, but Gawli’s clout was not yet at its peak. Shridhar, on the other hand, had a brother who was well known among the association of Udipi hotel owners, which meant he was better connected than Shaikh. All that remained was the decider which would demonstrate Shridhar’s clout and get Shaikh to back off .

  And so it happened that, on a sunny day in March 1983, Shridhar followed Shaikh to Dagdi Chawl. When he reached Gawli’s durbar, Shridhar hurled a volley of abuse at Gawli, hoping to belittle him. The ploy worked and Gawli appeared overcome by humiliation at the barrage of cuss words coming his way. Until then, Gawli had never been known to use weapons or lose his temper in public, but this was an unprovoked attack, and he was being abused in his own durbar.

  In the blink of an eye, a Gawli aide, Taraman Ghatkar, reacted to the situation by slicing Shridhar down with a chopper. It is said that Arun Gawli joined Ghatkar in his vicious attack and helped stab Shridhar until he died. This, according to police records, was the first murder on the Dagdi Chawl premises.

  The incident became too much for Shaikh to handle and he surrendered to the police, while Gawli went on the run. Ghatkar ran away, but was eventually caught by the police. The case was handed over to the crime branch and police inspector Madhukar Zende took it over. Zende was known to be a tenacious cop, and Gawli was advised to surrender in order to save himself the agony of running; Zende would eventually track him down and the penalty would be worse. After chewing on the idea for a month, Gawli finally surrendered to Zende.

  Prior to the killing of Shridhar at Dagdi Chawl, Gawli, along with Reshim and Rama Naik, had been involved in the murder of matka operator and local goon Parasnath Pandey. The police had arrested Gawli and his cronies, but they had all managed to get bail and leave jail in a month – adding to Gawli’s stature. As is often the case in India, the trial dragged on for years.

  In 1985, when the case came up for hearing in court, all the accused were acquitted, except Gawli. He was not released as he had also been booked in Shridhar Shetty’s murder, and this ensured his stay in jail for two years at least.

  Criminals on the run don’t have the opportunity to develop contacts over cappuccinos or access the internet for networking. For them, jails are the best places to strike up alliances and foster bonds.

  Rama Naik, who had found a mentor in Varadarajan Mudaliar during their imprisonment in the Emergency era, had got into bootlegging and smuggling through him. It was also around this time, in 1985, that Babu Reshim and Rama Naik had developed their contacts with a man called Rajan Nair – alias Bada Rajan – in Chembur’s Tilak Nagar area, in the northeastern suburbs of Mumbai. In time, Rajan became their ladder to the Dawood-Sabir gang in south Mumbai.

  In 1986, the Shridhar Shetty murder case came up for hearing at the sessions court and all three accused – Arun Gawli, Ghatkar and Razaq Shaikh – were acquitted. Even after three years, the prosecution was unable to convince the court of Gawli’s involvement in the murder.

  Arun Gawli returned to Dagdi Chawl to a huge welcome. The scale was unimaginable, like a politician’s victory celebration. Some say it was equivalent to a krantikari, a freedom fighter, returning after being unjustly jailed; or, as some sycophants put it, a royal welcome given to a king by his subjects.

  Gawli’s reception was a slap in the administration’s face; this was the man who had also killed a hotelier on the same premises and everyone knew it.

  In Gawli’s absence, Rama Naik and Babu Reshim had managed the gang efficiently. They had by now spread their tentacles to the matka and illicit liquor businesses.

  One intriguing aspect of the gang’s operations was its involvement in cultural activities in the city. Their exuberant celebration of festivals like Ganesh Chaturthi and Navratri extended to several days and included musical performances, visits to the cinema and other group activities. People gathered in large numbers and young men took days off from work or school to stay at home in their colonies and spend time together. The gang then started sponsoring the orchestra or other events and emptied their wallets, of course proclaiming the fact on huge banners, with their names flashing amidst words of appreciation and gratitude. This helped pump up the popularity of the Dagdi Chawl gang, as it was known in those days. It also helped propel Arun Gawli into the political arena.

  By now, more than 200 jobless youth had joined the Dagdi Chawl gang. Rama Naik and Gawli then thought of an idea. They asked these young men to form teams and visit hotels, shops and offices around Byculla and ask for hafta. The demands ranged from Rs 100 to Rs 1,000, depending on the business and the turnover. Those who refused to pay or opposed the boys were taught a lesson. Their shops were ransacked and the owners so badly roughed up that others were thoroughly intimidated. This was how Gawli’s reign of terror spread in Byculla, Madanpura, Chinchpokli and Lalbaug. Soon, the young men started getting more ambitious and extended their rounds to the Parel and Dadar markets. The money thus earned was used to pay gang members who ran errands.

  The gang became richer and began drawing more people into its fold. Gawli’s power was truly on the rise.

  SEVEN

  Mithun Mania

  Chhota Rajan worshipped Mithun Chakraborty. Mithun had a certain panache, style and versatility that other actors lacked, and the don had become a huge fan of the Bengali dancing and action star ever since he watched his film Suraksha. Mithun continued his successful run at the box office with Wardaat and Saahas. All three movies were spy flicks, in which Mithun played a James Bond like character. Herein lay his appeal.

  Chhota Rajan was born Rajendra Nikhalje. In Maharashtrian households, children quickly acquire a nickname and everybody, young and old, addresses the child by that name. In Rajendra’s case, it was Nana.

  Nana was so crazy about Mithun that he soon started to get his clothes fashioned after the star’s; he even fashioned his hair like Mithun’s, with a parting in the middle. He felt he could identify with the star, who was swarthy (like him), yet stylish.

  He even cashed in on the hero’s popularity; whenever a Mithun-starrer released at Sahakar Cinema, Nana person
ally ensured that his boys reaped a windfall in the form of tickets sold in the black market.

  Then, one day, all hell broke loose. Saahas, which was released after Wardaat, was regarded as the final film in the Mithun trilogy by director Ravikant Nagaich. It had a ‘houseful’ opening, which meant that the tickets had been sold out. There was mayhem at the theatre compound on Friday. Subsequently, policemen were posted at the theatre on Saturday, in case of any further trouble. But Nana was ready and on the prowl; he was not going to let the police deprive him of business.

  As the matinee progressed to the next show, and then to the third and last show, the ticket prices kept shooting up. A small argument with other Mithun fans flared into a scuffle; Nana was not willing to reduce the price of tickets for a Mithun-starrer. He believed he deserved every rupee that could be made.

  The scuffle turned into a full-scale commotion outside the theatre. The constables posted on duty could not remain mute spectators; angry moviegoers who had been denied tickets were complaining to them about the black marketers.

  The black marketers, however, were mere paper tigers. A few whacks from the police lathis and they crumbled and began running. But Nana could not bear to watch his boys being brutally beaten up. He grabbed a lathi from the hands of one of the cops and turned on them to defend his pride.

  Assaulting a uniformed cop on duty was unheard of until the eighties – only lawless Pathans could get away with it. But Nana’s bravura emboldened his men and five constables were beaten black and blue that day.

  Nana’s temerity was noticed by everyone in the Mumbai underworld. Until then, the bunch of thugs who sold movie tickets at Sahakar Plaza Cinema at Tilak Nagar had been known as Jagdish Sharma’s or Goonga’s boys. (Sharma was hard of hearing even then, though not mute, hence the nickname was not entirely accurate.) After that day, Nana’s boys got their own identity.