Black Friday Page 6

  Tiger decided to send the boys in batches to Pakistan for training. They would travel to Dubai and from there sneak into Pakistan. Almost all the Indian dons at Dubai had an arrangement, called ‘khancha ’ or ‘setting’, whereby they could travel to Pakistan without an official visa. Tiger planned to take advantage of this arrangement.

  On 11 February, the first batch of youths left Bombay for Dubai by a Cathay Pacific flight. The seven men were Chikna, Badshah Khan, Parvez Kelawala, Salim Phansopkar who was referred to as Tainur, Salim Bazaarwala, Farooq Pawle and Zakir. At Dubai, they were met by Tiger’s brother, Ayub Memon, who put them up at a flat belonging to Taher Merchant, a Dubai-based NRI. On 13 February they flew to Islamabad.

  On 15 February, Firoz Amani Malik, Niyaz Ahmed and Nasim Barmare left for Dubai. They joined the first group on 17 February. On 19 February, they were joined by nine more trainees: Yeba Yaqub, Nasir Dhakla, Theba, Irfan Chougule, Shahnawaz, Abdul Akhtar, Mohammed Rafiq, Gul Mohammed Khan alias Gullu, and Bashir Khan, bringing the total number of trainees to nineteen. After an intensive course, they returned to Bombay on 4 March.

  ■

  Badshah Khan’s Story

  I could look out of the windows and see the wafting clouds, below me and beside me. In the distance, I saw the fading light of the sun. I am so used to people making empty promises that I seldom get excited. However, since the time Tiger bhai came and told me, ‘Badshah Khan, you and your friends are going for training to Islamabad on 13 February’, I had been excited.

  Tiger bhai and Ayub bhai had handed us our boarding passes at Dubai airport. We were seven young men bound by a common motive, driven by the same goal and spurred by the consuming fire of revenge. When I asked who would receive us at Islamabad airport, Tiger bhai said that we did not need to worry, arrangements had been made.

  We boarded the Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) flight from Dubai. We knew PIA was notorious for its delays, bad airhostesses and pathetic service. We used to joke that roofs leaked during the monsoon and technicians used a lit match to check fuel levels inside the tank. It was nicknamed Paleed Iblees Airlines (Unlucky Satanic Airlines), and unfailingly lived up to its reputation!

  As I was squirming in my uncomfortable seat, an airhostess passed down the aisle and grimaced when our eyes met. Suddenly the speaker, which was just above my seat, crackled into life. ‘Friends, this is your captain. We are sorry to inform you that the Dubai-Islamabad flight had to be diverted to Lahore airport as one of our esteemed passengers is complaining of acute heart pain. We are afraid it is an emergency and so the flight plans have to be changed. We apologize for the inconvenience.’

  The passengers reacted in whispers, a few groaned. One of the passengers who seemed to be a doctor rushed towards the cockpit. ‘Paleed hai, paleed hai,’ said Javed Chikna, who was sitting behind me. Javed had a hairless face, which is why we generously bestowed the sobriquet of Chikna on him. But I differed with Chikna as I thought one must do everything possible to save a Muslim life.

  After the old woman who was ill was taken off the plane at Lahore airport, we resumed the journey to Islamabad. When we touched down, it was 8.30 p.m. I stepped out on the tarmac and, as I breathed in the cold air, felt rejuvenated. We were going to be trained to exact revenge for our martyred brothers in the riots of Bombay. I felt weighed down with the responsibility, yet strangely exhilarated. It was a new beginning, and I felt it would change my very being. At the same time, we were stressed as we did not have any visas, nor did we have any idea how we would get through immigration.

  Chikna and I walked ahead, while the others followed. Tiger bhai had told Chikna about the contact person, who would identify himself as Jaafar bhai and take care of the visa and immigration formalities. As instructed, Chikna wore a white cap, which Tiger bhai had given him at Dubai airport, and carried a newspaper close to his chest. This was how Jaafar bhai was supposed to identify us.

  Within a few minutes of Chikna donning the cap, a tall, gangly but dignified-looking man came up to us and asked him, ‘Are you friends of Tiger?’ When Chikna nodded, he introduced himself as Jaafar bhai. He gave us a brilliant smile, warmly shook hands with each of us and led us to the exit. I was surprised that no one in the airport bothered to even look at the seven of us or question us about our papers. As Jaafar bhai passed, the customs officials and policemen gave him stiff salutes. Jaafar bhai only nodded in return. We were all very impressed. I guessed that Jaafar bhai must be in some senior position in the Pakistani police, which is why the rules were waived for him and he was greeted with such respect. I wondered about Tiger bhai’s connections and influence.

  Javed Chikna

  As soon as we stepped out of the airport, two jeeps drew up. Jaafar bhai signalled us to get in. After a short drive, we reached a bungalow, simply but tastefully done up. Jaafar bhai told us very politely that we should relax, and that dinner would be served soon.

  I began wandering from one room to another. Jaafar bhai was busy talking to Chikna. He clearly considered him to be the most senior in the group. I knew that Chikna and Theba were the two closest to Tiger bhai. Chikna had been involved in several murder cases and was feared in the Mahim area. Theba too had executed many a job at Tiger bhai’s behest. During my interaction with Tiger bhai, he had begun trusting me as well. He now addressed me as ‘beta ’, according me the same affection he would his son. I had never expected to rise in the ranks so rapidly, nor to play such an important role in his designs.

  Jaafar bhai brought dinner. Contrary to our expectations, the meal was spartan: mutton in thin gravy and rotis. After dinner, Jaafar bhai took away our passports and tickets. He said that during our stay in Pakistan, we should not address each other by our real names but should use assumed names. I was re-christened Nasir, Javed was Ali, Parvez was Mohammed, Zakir was called Shakir, Salim became Imran, Farooq was Faisal, and Tainur became Mujahid. Jaafar bhai left, promising to return the following morning, and we retired to sleep.

  The next morning, after a disappointing breakfast, Jaafar bhai took us sightseeing. We saw the Faisal Masjid, regarded as one of the biggest mosques in Pakistan, from outside. I was shocked to see such security arrangements outside a mosque. Jaafar bhai explained that the arrangements were because the Malaysian prime minister was visiting the mosque. Jaafar bhai then took us to the City Park, which is located in a hilly region from where most of Islamabad can be seen. He now seemed like a tourist guide. At the park he told us that whenever a foreign dignitary visited Islamabad, he was requested to plant a sapling in this park, beside which a nameplate is fixed. I wanted to have a closer look at the saplings, but Jaafar bhai hurriedly took us in another direction. We had already been here for a day, but he was the only Pakistani we had spoken to!

  That evening, we were told to pack our bags as we were leaving for the training camp. Again two jeeps came to pick us up. Jaafar bhai came with us. Through the darkness, I could see the jeeps leave the city limits and speed into thick jungles and mountains. The air was very cold and we were all chilled and nervous. The drive lasted over two-and-a-half hours. We must have travelled at least 150 kilometres. Jaafar bhai told us that we had to cover the remaining distance on foot. We began walking in the jungle, bushes and branches brushing us as we went forward.

  After about half an hour, we reached a clearing, situated between the hills. I could see two huge rectangular tents on one side. Jaafar bhai introduced us to two tall and muscular men, who he said would be our instructors. He called them ‘Babaji’. They both looked strong and stern, and wore kurtas. All of us were shivering in our sweaters and jackets, but these men did not seem to feel the cold. I had seen such characters in Hindi movies, men who were assigned the task of beating up our thin and short heroes but end up getting beaten to pulp. But these two guys looked really dangerous. They could have taken on all our screen heroes together without a wince! We were told that we should sleep now and that our training would begin the following morning.

  In Bomb
ay, I never got up before 11 a.m. But in the jungles, I was made to get up at 6 a.m. It was 15 February. That first day we were made to jog, stretch and do all kinds of exercises. In all my twenty-seven years, I had never exercised. My body was rebelling against such rigorous exertions. At the end of the three-hour session, I felt totally drained. I was so exhausted that I think I would have quit, had the goal not been so important. After all, I had vowed that I would take revenge.

  The location of the camp was perfect for our requirements. There were six men to look after the camp: the two Babajis, two servants who served food and cleaned up, and two armed guards. Our meals were delivered by jeep every day at the same time. I marvelled at the excellent organization.

  On 17 February three youths arrived at the camp, who had also been sent from Bombay to be trained. They introduced themselves as Akram, Aslam and Yusuf. But I thought that if we could be given false names, the same could have been done with them. I did some snooping and discovered that they were actually called Firoz Malik, Niyaz Ahmed and Nasim Barmare.

  We all gathered in a tent for breakfast, after which one of the Babajis announced that he would now begin training us in handling the instruments of death. He was carrying an AK-56 rifle. When we came into the field again, we were shown automatic pistols, handguns, light machineguns and Kalashnikovs. Babaji showed us how to hold the weapon, told us about recoil and how the trigger could be pulled to distribute death wholesale. For the next two days, we did nothing but target practice. The sound of the shots reverberated throughout the jungles and the hills, and the clatter of the machineguns and blazing gun barrels filled us with respect and apprehension.

  I realized why we had had to travel all the way to Pakistan for the camp. There was no other place where we could have received such training; anywhere else the booming shots and loud reports would have attracted too much attention. Such intensive training was not possible anywhere in India, nor in Dubai or any other place I could think of. Pakistan—the one place so sensitive to the plight of Indian Muslims—was the only option.

  Firoz Malik

  The sound of ten machineguns spitting fire was deafening. I thought, if only I had such a gun Mohammed Ali could have never destroyed our family. We used to be a fairly prosperous family. My father had an embroidery business and owned the first floor, some 2,700 square feet, of Rippon House at Nagpada. But in 1980 Mohammed Ali produced forged papers and got us evicted by the police. My parents, two younger brothers, one younger sister and I were thrown out on the road. When my mother and sister refused to leave, the men from the Nagpada police station brutally kicked and belted them.

  My father did not live long after the humiliation. I could not continue my education beyond Class VII, as I had to take care of the family. These shoulders, once so weak that they could not bear such responsibilities, were now carrying an AK-56. I was determined to help my entire community. I had failed to take revenge on one man and his stooges in uniform, but now I was ready to take revenge on the entire nation.

  I was brought back to the present by Babaji’s voice. A huge sheet was spread on the ground. Babaji explained how to knock down an AK-56 and how to reassemble it. He demonstrated the entire procedure and then asked us to do the same. Most of our day was spent with AK-56 rifle spares. Then we were shown light machineguns, and taught how to disassemble and reassemble these. We also did target practice with Mauser pistols and rifles.

  On 19 February, nine more youths arrived in the camp. I had met all of them before. One of them, Gullu, had played an active role during the communal riots in Behrampada. The Nirmal Nagar police were looking for him and for Bashir Khan, another of the nine. Now there were nineteen of us—all Bombay boys. The large number made me proud and sure of success.

  On 20 February, Tiger bhai came to the camp, along with one Ahmed sahab. Tiger bhai took lessons with us on how to throw hand grenades. We were shown two types of grenades: one which exploded after removing the pin, while the other could be activated by pulling down a thread-like cord. The instructors set up a blackboard and wrote on it, explaining with the aid of points and diagrams. Those who were literate took notes; the others tried to commit it to memory.

  We learnt all kinds of exciting things. ‘This may look like an ordinary pencil, but it is a detonator. We call it a pencil timer. The red pencil explodes fifteen minutes after it is activated, the white pencil after an hour, and the green pencil after two-and-a-half hours,’ Babaji told us.

  After lunch that day, we were shown some black soap-like lumps. I remembered that Tiger bhai had told us that it was kala sabun at the time of the landings. Babaji said, ‘This is RDX— Research Developed Explosive. It was discovered after World War II, and is said to be one of the most lethal bomb-making ingredients.’ He taught us how to make an RDX bomb. He attached a thirty-minute pencil timer to the bomb. We began chatting after he set it up. Suddenly an explosion rocked the jungles and mountains. The noise seemed to shatter my eardrums. The sky was raining stones and mud, and the earth beneath my feet was shaking. The black smoke from the explosion enveloped the entire area. All my companions were similarly dazed. Things seemed to be happening in slow motion: we were floating in air and time had been suspended.

  I think more than ten minutes went by after the explosion before the curtain of smoke gave way and I could see and hear properly. We moved towards the spot where the bomb had been placed. The pit was many feet deep.

  Babaji told us to make bombs as well. We began moulding the malleable black putty. He triggered several explosions of RDX bombs, though this time on a relatively muted scale.

  The next day, 21 February, we were shown a rocket launcher. It looked so scary that we were afraid to even touch it. Babaji only explained the technicalities of the launcher, its functions and how it could be operated. But he didn’t shoot it nor were we given an opportunity to do so.

  Tiger bhai and Ahmed sahab were to leave that day. I think Tiger bhai had come just to observe our training, and to see whether we were participating with enthuasiasm. Before leaving, Tiger bhai told us, ‘Javed, Anwar, Badshah Khan, train well. You will have to use this training in Bombay later.’ We smiled in acknowledgement. I nodded, silently promising, Tiger bhai, I will not let you down. Anwar Theba, Firoz, Niyaz and Nasim left with them.

  After Tiger bhai’s departure, we stayed for some more days, practising what we had been taught. On the last day of our training, a pleasant breeze was blowing. We were happy that we would soon be returning to our families. ‘We might not have succeeded in transforming you into a killing machine or a perfect commando but we have taught you the best way of handling weapons and explosives which will help you in your mission in Bombay. You have learnt well and I know you will live up to expectations,’ Babaji told us.

  The next day, 2 March, the jeeps brought us back to the bungalow where we had been housed after our arrival. There were now fifteen of us. Jaafar bhai took us sightseeing again in Islamabad. We visited the grave of Zia-ul-Haq and a picturesque picnic spot, Murree, which reminded me of Kashmir. Later, Jaafar bhai took us to the airport and escorted us to the plane for Dubai. We boarded the plane without any formal check-in. International immigration formalities were again waived for our personal convenience!

  At Dubai, we took a cab to Taher Merchant’s flat. Firoz, Niyaz and Nasim were there. We began teasing one another, calling ourselves commandos. Tiger bhai came to the flat and told us to assemble at a bungalow at Al-Rashidia at 8 p.m.

  It was the first time that our entire group of ‘trained commandos’ had gathered under one roof, with Tiger bhai present among us. Gradually, the conversation veered towards the communal riots in Bombay. Dinner was served while we talked. After dinner, we all gathered in the hall. Tiger bhai seemed to be in a pensive mood. He ordered Irfan Chougule to get the Holy Quran. We all were taken by surprise because I thought that the idea behind gathering was to further discuss our strategy. I did not expect Tiger bhai to recite from the Quran.

  Irfan bro
ught the Quran reverently. The Quran is considered the most venerable and sacred object for a Muslim, dearer than one’s own family, spouse and children. Tiger bhai asked Irfan to place the Quran in the centre of the table in the hall, and stood up and addressed all of us. ‘Brothers, let us all place our hands on the holiest book of Allah, the most exalted, and take a solemn oath.’ We were all very serious now as we gathered around the table. We all placed our hands on the book, one after another, covering the book entirely.

  We repeated after Tiger bhai: ‘We take an oath that we will never disclose the secret of our mission to anybody. We will never mention our trip to Dubai and Islamabad. We will never talk about our training in firearms and explosives. Even if the police arrest us, we will never disclose the names of our associates to the police. We will maintain absolute secrecy about our plans. We will not confide in even our wives, brothers, friends and family members.’

  A new enthusiasm, new earnestness had overwhelmed each of us. Tiger bhai reiterated the importance of the mission. Then the mood lightened: he distributed 200 UAE dirhams to each of us for shopping in Dubai, and instructed us to leave the bungalow in batches of four.

  I left Dubai on 4 March. On the flight back, I thought how privileged I was to be an associate of Tiger bhai. I reached my house at Mahim at 5 p.m. that afternoon.

  ■

  After their return the nineteen trained men were sent to scour Bombay for potential targets. Meanwhile, Tiger felt the need to recruit and train some more. He identified five other promising boys, but unlike the earlier group who could wield AK-56s with some expertise and were adept in building explosive devices, the newly recruited men had no such skills.