Mafia Queens of Mumbai

  I try reaching for them but they playfully move back, asking me to choose only one. I can’t decide. They are all equally tempting. I look from one to the other, at whatever is displayed to me, and then reach for the one whose breasts are fuller. I begin to wade through the water in an attempt to come closer to her. I move my fingers on her lips and come closer to kiss her.

  Our lips part but, all of a sudden, her lips move peculiarly and she begins to scowl. She starts screaming frantically. I don’t know how to react and I turn around; the other two women have disappeared. I turn back, but this time, instead of the Chinese woman, I see a lady in a shiny burqa. Her face is familiar. She is weeping; her pursed lips slowly open and cry for help. I am scared; I start slipping into the water, only to wake up with a jolt.

  When I was awake enough to realise that I’d only had a bad dream, I began to abuse myself for spoiling my own fantasies. Majeed hurriedly walked in just then and told me that a burqewaali was screaming at the door after he had refused to allow her in.

  ‘Send her back. Tell her to come at twelve o’clock. Why the hell has she come so early?’

  ‘Bhai, it is twelve-thirty already,’ Majeed said, looking at his watch.

  I checked my own watch and saw that he was right. Annoyed, I told him to call her in. ‘Get some tea and water,’ I said. ‘I will be there in five minutes.’

  When I entered she was sitting on the same couch that she’d sat on the previous day. Her head was lowered slightly. ‘Salaam,’ she said.

  I returned the greeting but to be honest, I was not happy to see her. I usually avoid beggars, orphans and widows first thing in the day. I personally believe that it is not good luck to start the day seeing their faces.

  ‘Will you have tea?’

  "No, I have already eaten at home.’

  ‘I am sorry but I haven’t eaten my breakfast yet,’ I said, as Majeed walked in with a plate of hot samosas and egg burji. Once again, out of courtesy I asked her if she’d like to have some. Refusing, she got up and walked to the window.

  I told Majeed to prepare the targets and get the ghodas to the firing range located in the basement of my building. He agreed but looked at me warily before leaving. Probably, knowing my unhealthy track record with women, he assumed that I was using the poor lady to my advantage.

  Ashraf, who was standing near the window, displayed neither anxiety nor excitement. I began eating. I realised that she had turned her face towards the window so that I could eat without feeling embarrassed by her presence. I appreciated this.

  As I put the last of the egg burji in my mouth, I asked, ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Without a doubt,’ she said, now turning her head in my direction.

  For the first time, I noticed that her eyes were swollen. It seemed like she hadn’t slept a wink and had been crying through the night. I knew that, though I was not interested in helping Ashraf, her despair was pushing me to doing it.

  ‘I need to take revenge, if not for me, for the soul of my husband,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, then,’ I said with a sigh, as I got up. ‘Let’s go to the firing range.’

  We walked down to the basement. The firing range was not big enough to contain the jarring sound of gunshots, yet it was not a bad learning ground. Majeed had been efficient enough and placed three targets, two of which were dartboards, and the other a cardboard cut-out. All the three targets were lined at even distance in one corner of the basement. In the middle, Majid had placed a wooden table with three of the best ghodas: a country made-pistol, star pistol and my favourite German Mauser.

  ‘Which one do you want to begin with?’ I asked, showing off my pistols to Ashraf.

  ‘The one that will help shoot down my target most effectively.’

  I was impressed but didn’t respond directly. ‘Before I begin, tell me about your fears. Can you bear loud sounds? Are you calm at the sight of blood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is very easy to say yes ...’

  ‘When you see your loved one die in front of you, these things don’t bother you anymore,’ she said curtly.

  I turned to Majeed and asked him to bring the glasses and ear-muffs, explaining to her that she needed to wear these since she was an amateur.

  She’d never handled a gun before, I could tell. I elaborated on the various parts of the gun, mainly the grip, the trigger guard, the magazine and the barrel. ‘Unless and until you are firing, keep your fingers away from the trigger,’ I warned.

  Then, I lifted my automatic and positioned myself eight to ten metres away from the first dartboard. I raised my arms straight towards the board and tightened my grip on the gun, placing the index finger of my right hand on the trigger as I did so.

  Ashraf watched me very closely. I parted my feet slightly and bent so that the back of my body made a curve. ‘When you are still in the learning stage, this is how you position yourself,’ I said. ‘This position will help you stay balanced when you fire.’

  Ashraf nodded and held out her hand impatiently for the gun. I loaded the magazine and handed the gun to her. ‘Hold it like I did.’

  Her hands dropped slightly with the unexpected weight of the weapon. But, a moment later, she surprised me when she asked me to move aside and confidently took the same position as mine. She was still in her burqa, and that made me very uncomfortable. But as she bent slightly, I realised that she was imitating the stance I’d shown her perfectly.

  ‘Wait, this is not enough. You need to cock the weapon first.’

  She looked confused. I smiled at her innocence, took the gun from her and moved several metres away.

  ‘Watch me.’ I grasped the slide on top of the pistol and pulled it towards me. When, I had drawn it back fully, I released it. There was a ‘click’ sound.

  ‘The gun is ready to fire now,’ I said.

  Taking my previous position once again, I fired two rounds. One of the bullets hit the centre of the target. I realised I was relieved; I didn’t want Ashraf to think I was not capable.

  I handed the gun to her and warned her of the sound and the jolt she’d receive.

  ‘I am not afraid,’ she retorted.

  She held the gun and placed her index finger on the trigger.

  "Now, remember, don’t pull, just squeeze it slowly,’ I said.

  Her finger squeezed the trigger slowly. A gunshot fired in the air and Ashraf fell back from the force with which the gun recoiled.

  ‘You can’t afford to be that delicate.’ I reached out to help her regain her balance.

  ‘I’il manage on my own; I don’t like men touching me,’ she said.

  Offended, I said harshly, ‘If that is so, then you shouldn’t be with a stranger during your iddat period in the first place.’ Iddat is the three-month period of mourning that Muslims widows follow. During this time, the women usually don’t meet or talk to men outside their family.

  Ashraf ignored me. ‘I want to try this once more,’ she said.

  I shrugged and walked to the stool in the corner, annoyed by her coldness.

  On that same day, Ashraf managed to progress quite a bit, in the art of shooting. We completed our first day’s training session at 4 p.m. I was hungry but she was showing no signs of leaving. This is enough for one day. Don’t stress yourself too much. But you need to practise with the same intensity every day.’

  I invited her to join me for lunch but she refused.

  "No thank you Hussain bhai. What time tomorrow?’

  ‘First, please stop calling me "bhai”, I don’t like it. About the next session, we shall meet at the same time tomorrow. Khuda hafiz,’ I said and stomped out of the firing range.

  Over the next few days, she perfected the use of the gun. We were in the basement and Ashraf had completed her two-hour shooting session. I was sitting on the stool and watching her pack up. When she finished, she walked towards me with a brown haversack hanging from her right shoulder and asked innocently, ‘I guess this would be
enough to take on Dawood? When do we go to Dubai?’

  I managed to control my laughter. ‘Are you prepared to take on someone physically?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I guess your training is not over yet,’ I said teasingly.

  ‘So, let’s learn. What are we waiting for?’ she asked, irritated.

  I was astonished: she was behaving as if I were obligated to teach her or as if she were my sole priority in life at the moment. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I have a lot of work. You should be thankful that I’m making time for you at all.’

  She seemed chagrined. Tm sorry,’ she said.

  Immediately, I melted. ‘Anyway ... I can give you some basic ideas on self-defence today. We can work on the rest tomorrow when I’ll introduce you to my martial arts trainer.’

  Ashraf dropped the haversack and stood to hear me out carefully.

  ‘Just a few rules ...’ I said. ‘Always remember that there are three parts in your body which you can use for your defence: your elbows, knees and heels. Even if you are injured, these three will always remain functional.’

  ‘How can I best use them when fighting against a man?’

  I looked at her for a long time, not knowing how to frame my sentence. Finally, I said, ‘Between a man’s legs.’

  There was a long and awkward silence between the two of us. I was trying to phrase the sentences in my mind so that she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Not there as you are thinking ... I meant the ... uh ... testicles. I mean, somewhere below the crotch. Men usually are rendered helpless for a good ten minutes; by this time, you can escape.’

  She stared at me for a few seconds. Then she lifted her haversack and looked at me again. I thought that I had offended her and was about to apologise, when she broke into a half-smile. ‘We shall meet tomorrow. Thank you.’

  I was relieved; I returned her smile with one of my own.

  Two weeks passed and Ashraf was picking up well. We met every day: she even insisted on being taught on Sundays. I found it hard to say no to her. While she remained the same burqa-clad, aloof woman I had first met, I began to have feelings for her. And it only intensified on the day when we had our first big fight.

  I had decided to teach Ashraf to ride a motorbike. I was riding with her when her burqa got stuck in the rod of a truck. It was a near-death experience and I told her that it would be impossible for her to learn to ride a bike if she had a burqa on. In fact, I tried to explain how simple things would be if she behaved more sensibly and did not wear the burqa in the first place.

  She was infuriated and we had a big argument. After a lot of quarrelling, Ashraf stormed out angrily. The next day, when Majeed woke me up, I was surprised and shocked to see her in my drawing room, dressed in a salwaar kameez. She was beautiful, more beautiful than I’d thought.

  Uff... what a distraction she could be. I felt like I was falling in love with her.

  ‘Hussain sahib, let’s learn to ride the bike,’ she said.

  ‘You finally agreed.’

  ‘Of course I had to,’ she said, giving me her beautiful smile. ‘I will do anything for Mehmood.’

  Chapter 3

  ASHRAF’S REINCARNATION

  A

  fter two months of our rigorous training sessions, Ashraf had learned the art of self-defence, the use of weaponry and had been confidently riding around the city on my bike.

  Ashraf had changed. From salwar-kameezes, she had moved to wearing jeans and long, loose shirts. Her monosyllabic replies had also been replaced with sharp and witty remarks. I soon realised that she was a wordsmith: articulate and linguistically gifted. Also, unlike before, Ashraf was filled less with sorrow and more with the desire to get her revenge.

  We had gotten quite close and it was impossible for her not to have realised my affection for her, yet she never said anything.

  One afternoon, Ashraf excused herself from a training session for some ‘legal work’.

  Feeling a little lost without her, I thought of taking a ride down to Marine Drive. However, just minutes before I could leave home, Ashraf walked in. I was more than delighted to see her.

  ‘Mubarak ho, Hussain sahib,’ she said, removing her chappals and walking into my bedroom. She was holding some papers.

  ‘What happened? You seem very happy,’ I asked, trying to hide my pleasure on seeing her.

  Yes, I am. There is so much to tell you.’

  ‘Do you want to take a ride to Marine Drive,’ I asked, adding, ‘we can talk about it there.’ She agreed.

  This time, she rode while I sat pillion, and I must confess that the ride was as smooth as satin. She stopped the bike at a parking lot in Nariman Point and locked it. Then she got off and shoved some papers from her handbag into my hands. I was still sitting on the bike.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Read it.’

  You know I don’t have the patience, Ashraf.’

  ‘Okay ... but promise me you won’t get angry,’ she said.

  ‘What is it about?’

  ‘Remember this morning I called to tell you that I won’t be in because of some legal matter?’ I nodded.

  ‘Actually my lawyer had called ...’ she said a little timidly as if she had been hiding a thing or two for a long time.

  ‘Lawyer ... what for?’

  ‘My petition against police inspector Emanuel Amolik is going to come up for hearing in the high court soon.’

  ‘What? When did you file the petition?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know I didn’t inform you about this before, but after seeking advice from a relative, I had filed a petition against Amolik in the high court last month,’ she said, sounding guilty. ‘Luckily, the case is coming up for hearing soon.’

  I was baffled. It was not going to be easy for a young woman to take on a senior Crime Branch officer like Amolik. Also, for a court already clogged with so many pending cases, I wondered how her petition could actually see the light of day so soon.

  ‘So, what is the good news in this?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, this is going to make things easy for both of us from here on, won’t it?’

  ‘How?’ I asked, mystified.

  ‘See, if the court passes an order against Amolik, Dawood will be netted for his involvement, too. Then, we won’t have to go all the way to Dubai to kill him as he will be brought to the city following the court’s orders.’

  Oh, God ... she was so naive. I shook my head, hating to have to disappoint her. ‘If that were the case, then Dawood would have been here long ago. There are so many warrants and summons pending against him; yet he is still in Dubai, a free man. You think a petition against an encounter specialist will bring him back?’

  Ashraf s face fell. ‘Oh! But I was told ...’ She wanted to say something but couldn’t continue.

  Suddenly, an idea occurred to me. I came closer to her and whispered, ‘Dawood has a chain of gambling dens, protection and extortion rackets. His money is channelled by hawala from dance bars, nightclubs, film productions, etc. Find a way to stop the flow of money from these ... he is sure to feel the pinch.’

  She paused for a second, trying to absorb what I’d told her. ‘Can you tell me how to go about this?’ she asked.

  For the first time, I would be revealing the actual nature of my job—the dark undercurrents of what I did for a living.

  Perhaps trusting her too much, I said, ‘Ashraf, I have for a long time been working as an informer only to get at Dawood. My networks feed me with information about his new businesses. I pass this on to the cops. The cops, if they succeed in doing something about it, give me a small percentage of the profits.’

  Seemingly unaffected by what I had just told her, Ashraf said, ‘I am willing to do the same, if that will make life difficult for him. But first, how do I begin?’

  I looked around; it was late afternoon and Marine Drive was fairly empty except for a few college students. I inched closer to her. ‘Align with his
enemies. Befriend all his detractors, just like you got hold of me. They will help you. As of now, Arun Gawli seems to be the best way to crack down on Dawood’s business. Heard of him?” I asked.

  "No,’ she said curtly. She was uncomfortable with my proximity, I realised, so I stepped back.

  ‘Gawli is a big ganglord, a Hindu. He lives in Dagdi Chawl in Byculla, and Dawood and he are constantly waging war against each other.’

  ‘Do you know him?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I don’t know him personally.’

  She walked towards the promenade and stood facing the sea for five minutes. I realised that she did not want to be disturbed. When she came back, I was sitting on the bike munching channa that I had bought from a hawker.

  ‘I am going now. I shall take a bus. Thank you once again. Khuda haafiz,’ she said and walked towards Mantralaya to take a bus from the depot. I sat for some time, by myself, thinking about how Ashraf was slowly taking over my life. After a restless half-hour, I started my bike and left for home.

  The next day, Ashraf was her usual self at the training session, totally focused on the martial arts exercises we were doing. I, on the other hand, was completely distracted by her presence. I wanted to hold her, and feel her body against mine but I knew that she would not allow me to have any of her now. If ever.

  Suddenly, she stopped and said, ‘I met Gawli.’

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked, trying not to sound flustered by how quickly she’d acted on my suggestion.

  ‘He listened to me patiently. However, I think he is suspicious about my being Dawood’s agent or something. Also, he doesn’t seem to think that aligning with a woman is the safest thing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He turned down my offer. He said that although he is supportive of all those who are against Dawood, in my case he cannot do much except feel sorry for me and my husband.’

  ‘Well, at least you tried. I’m proud of you.’

  She picked up a water bottle that was lying on a table, took a sip, and after a pregnant pause said, ‘But I have thought of something. It may sound foolish but I think that it is the only way forward.’