Dongri to Dubai (30 page)

Propping up these two levels, that of the super-rich and that of the traders-who-never-rest, festers a swamp of inhuman conditions inhabited by labourers from the Indian subcontinent, Africa, the Philippines, and China. These workers are usually tucked neatly out of sight lest they spoil Dubai’s clinical beauty. Sheikh Mo was intelligent enough to appreciate that the vision of whole battalions of these poorly nourished workers being moved from their squalid quarters, optimistically called labour camps, in trucks, like animals, to the construction sites where they toil 12 hours in the unbearable heat bore some unflattering historical comparisons. And so he ordered the open trucks be replaced with buses.

As his flight descended and began taxiing on the runway, Dawood heaved a sigh of relief. He did not like travelling by air and had to fight off a vicious paranoia every time he took a flight. As he began walking on the tarmac towards the concourse of the Dubai international airport, Dawood had mixed feelings of elation and apprehension. He was certain that now he had to bid adieu to Bombay and its mean streets. Maybe for the time; maybe forever. Now he had to make Dubai his Dongri, his home. Dawood had been to Dubai twice earlier, but as a tourist and not as a prospective resident.

As he cleared immigration formalities and stepped into the air- conditioned interiors of a waiting Toyota, Dawood glanced at the vast desert plains in a new light. At first sight, they were utterly depressing. Wide, endless roads, bordered by scorching heat and sand with the relief of the occasional building—this was Dubai. A place which, for many Indians, was more important than their own homeland. Suddenly Dawood felt homesick, and began to miss Bombay. But he realised he could not afford to be daunted now. He had burnt his bridges for a reason. He would now make this his headquarters and run his empire from this desert city. In a way it was good that the country was growing; he would get to grow simultaneously.

Dawood’s intrepid mind was at work. Known for having one of the sharpest minds in the world and more cunning than even Viktor Bout, Dawood had now begun to strategise. For the uninitiated, Bout is a Russian ganglord and arms dealer, who managed to dodge the long arm of the law until 2008 when the Thai police, following an Interpol Red Alert, detained him. The United States has since then wanted to extradite him but Bout has managed to resist their efforts. Dawood knew that there was no way Khalid would patch up with him, his first priority was to find a new chief executor of plans. He had to form a think tank and an executive committee.

Dawood wanted to dominate all the lucrative but legitimate businesses; at least in Dubai, he wanted to appear ‘white’ by investing in and endorsing all these businesses. Right from Bollywood to horse racing to the share market, he aimed to spread his tentacles everywhere. There was to be no megabucks business that was not controlled by his cartel. Horse racing and the film industry had fascinated him since his teenage years, but in Bombay he had been too busy toppling his rivals and playing hide-and-seek with the cops. In this country, he would not have to deal with the law and its enforcers because he would ensure they were on his side. In fact, he would ensure that the government would be on his side.

The car came to a stop, almost imperceptibly. The driver politely informed Dawood that he had reached. Dawood thought then that the car had glided in the same way as his flight earlier; not a single bump or pothole, no sound or jerk to remind him of the bad roads he was accustomed to. In Bombay, he could have never travelled this far with such ease.

Dawood looked at the plush bungalow in front of him, which one Sheikh Yusuf, Dawood’s new smuggling partner who had already set up base in Dubai, had arranged for him to stay at until he managed to move into his permanent residence. Dawood compared this with the dilapidated building of his past, Temkar Mohalla and then Musafirkhana—broken railings, creaky stairs, dirty corners, stinking corridors.

This swanky bungalow, with colourful fountains beyond the patio, pristine lawns, a colourful canopy, liveried waiters, a huge wrought iron gate, a marbled portico, and granite flooring was a different world. In Bombay, even the state governor or the chief minister could not have this kind of royal lifestyle. Admiring the opulent bungalow for a moment, Dawood decided immediately that he would make a bungalow for himself which was even better than this. Here, he would entertain the rich and famous of Bombay and Dubai.

Returning to planning mode, he decided he had to get his core members to Dubai. He knew that he could not trust anyone new to think or take decisions. While his mind created his strategies, he needed hands to execute them. Within his first twenty-four hours, Dawood had placed scores of calls to Bombay. The recipients of these calls included several senior cops, some budding politicians, and a few of his trusted loyalists. While he thanked the politicos and police officers, to his men he had one common command: ‘Wind up your business affairs and occupations and leave for Dubai’.

Thus began the exodus of Dawood’s acolytes from Bombay. The first one to join him was his younger brother, Anees Ibrahim, followed by Anil Parab alias Wangya (meaning ‘brinjal’; he was given this name because of his brinjal-like, short and rotund built). Sunil Sawant alias Sautya, Manish Lala, Ali Abdullah Antulay, and others began trooping into Dubai.

Dawood’s two most trusted lieutenants took several months to disentangle themselves from their messy police cases and seemingly interminable businesses to pack their bags for Dubai. They were the two Chhotas—Chhota Rajan and Chhota Shakeel—and they managed to make it to Dubai only in 1987 and 1988 respectively. Rajan reached Dubai earlier and because of his subservience, diligence, and readiness to accept any task, he became Dawood’s right-hand man. Shakeel joined the growing empire later and though he also displayed the same slavishness towards Bhai (Dawood), he had to be content with playing second fiddle to Rajan.

Meanwhile, Dawood’s self-importance reached such a peak that he bought a huge sprawling bungalow and named it The White House. Obviously, he did not deem himself any less important than the president of the United States of America.

2

Wiping Out Rivals

A
ll eyes were on Dawood Ibrahim. He looked at everyone seated in front of him carefully, as if weighing the pros and cons before delivering a verdict that was likely to change the equations of the underworld.

Just then Chhota Rajan walked into the room with a phone, his face suffused with the relief of a man who seemed to have surmounted a major problem and now needed only to enable his boss to make a final call. But the moment he entered and saw everyone, he decided not to pass the cordless handset to Dawood. Instead, he whispered something to the effect of ‘Bhai is busy now and will call later’ into the receiver and tucked it away.

Rajan then started to scan the faces of every man seated in the room. There was Sharad Shetty alias Anna, a special friend of Dawood Bhai and the top honcho of Bhai’s betting syndicate, while on the other side was Rama Naik, Bhai’s friend from his early days of struggle in Dongri.

Rajan was aware that Anna and Rama were squabbling over a huge plot of land in Malad, the burgeoning western suburbs of Mumbai. The feuding had reached the brink of violence, both men ready to spill blood if needed. But as both of them were close to Dawood, they could not stake their claim on the piece of land or unleash their minions on each other until Bhai had given them clearance. After several long distance calls and much whining to the Big Boss, both decided to take the matter to him for arbitration as they believed in Dawood’s sense of justice and fairness.

Their awe for the Big D was to increase; when Anna and Rama landed in Dubai, they were immediately checked into five-star hotels and provided with swanky, chauffeur-driven cars. Forgetting their enmity momentarily, they were utterly impressed with Dawood’s clout in an alien new land.

Several meetings were held over the next couple of days. Sharad Anna maintained his men had spotted the plot first and that he had begun the initiative to take over the land earlier. For his part, Rama argued that as he had obliged the land owner in the past, he was more keen to do business with him, but as Sharad’s men had threatened him, the land owner was terrified.

Dawood was quiet, a mute spectator to the rambling arguments of his two top aides, and asked only a few questions. Rajan realised that Bhai was tired of these tedious—and tortuous—hours of argument and explanation, and wanted to resolve the matter. He had probably been ready with a verdict a while ago. After a few years of close association with Dawood, Rajan had managed to develop a very accurate sense of the man’s inclinations.

Finally, just when Rama and Anna had begun to raise their voices again, the whole room fell silent and Dawood, after a few pregnant moments, simply raised his hand; indicating that he did not want to hear anymore. Not making any effort to break the long uncomfortable silence, he instead lit a cigar, exhaling dark plumes of smoke. The whole gathering was now fraught with tension.

Dawood stood up and strolled towards the life-sized glass window that looked down on the busy streets and traffic of Deira Dubai. On the horizon, the sun was setting, spreading its redness across the azure sky. He turned and said, ‘Rama, I think you should let Sharad Anna take up the land. And Anna, you should adequately compensate Rama.’

Total silence prevailed. No one dared to speak, anticipating that Dawood would elaborate, explaining why he had not ruled in Rama’s favour. But Dawood did not utter another word. He moved towards the door, preparing to leave the room. Just then, Rama who had been boiling with rage but had managed to remain calm and composed till now, stood up and said,
‘Bhai, yeh galat baat hai. Mera to nuksaan ho jayega. Aap nainsaafi kar rahe ho.
[Bhai, this is not correct. I’ll face losses… this is unfair.]’ Dawood did not reply, smoothly exiting out the door. Sharad got up at once and rushed after Dawood, while Rama flopped back onto the sofa. He looked at Rajan and muttered in Marathi: ‘
Mala he naahi jamnaar
[this is not going to work for me].’ Rajan tried to placate Naik but he knew it was futile.

This was the day everyone realised Rama Naik would cease being an ally of the D Company. Rama was not only a mentor for gangster Arun Gawli but also commanded a lot of respect amongst the Mumbai mafia. He felt slighted not only because he had lost a business deal to a rival, but also at the way Dawood had treated him, behaving so brusquely and haughtily. It seemed clear that Sharad had already got an assurance from Dawood that the deal would be his.

A furious Rama, upon disembarking in Mumbai, decided to do the unimaginable: he decided to defy Dawood.

Now, Arun Gawli had warned him that since Dawood had moved to Dubai, he was not the same man. Dawood had become very dishonest and treacherous, and wanted to undermine the BRA Company. However, Naik had always felt that Gawli was too sceptical and suspicious of Dawood because he had refused to help him on a couple of occasions. But this time, Gawli had proved right on all counts: Dawood’s treachery, his deliberate intentions to undermine the Gawli-Naik combine, and his partisanship.

However, Rama had decided not to abide by Dawood’s diktat. He might be a Bhai but he was not in Mumbai anymore, and had no business meddling in disputes which could be resolved locally, was his logic.

Sharad Shetty was elated at Dawood’s arbitration but he was also apprehensive of violent fallout. Shetty foresaw Rama would not let go of such a lucrative business deal so easily. And his fears proved justified when he heard from his boys that Rama had been in touch with the property owner and had made no signs of retreat.

At this time, Sharad was still enjoying Dawood’s hospitality in Dubai; it was easy for him to go and plead his case, complaining of Naik’s intransigence. Dawood heard out Anna’s diatribe patiently, then made a very clichéd but significant pronouncement, ‘
Kuch na kuch karna padega
[we have got to do something].’

A hackneyed phrase normally used by helpless people in desperate circumstances. But, whenever people close to Dawood heard him say this, they understood that the Bhai had made up his mind to exercise the extreme option.