Mumbaistan (2 page)

Zohra didn't quite understand Rabia's attitude sometimes. The orthodox Kashmiri household that Zohra had been raised in did not condone flights of fancy. She had grown up under the dark cloud of militancy, fearful of every little shadow. But as soon as she had attained a semblance of puberty, she had run away from her cloistered existence. Away from home in Kupwara, all the way to Mumbai, into the arms of the only trade that would embrace runaway girls like her. She didn't mind her chosen profession; it had provided her with a safe haven. Apart from the occasional 'rough up' by a drunk client and some close scrapes with sexually transmitted diseases, she had lived a carefree life.

Rabia's voice cut through Zohra's thoughts, 'You know what the best part of a nikah is?'

As Zohra took in Rabia's flushed face, she couldn't help flashing back an indulgent smile at the best friend she had ever had. 'Shopping!' she replied, as if reading Rabia's thoughts.

◉

From a terrace two buildings away, a tall dark man, dressed in a municipal corporation worker's dirt-stained khaki bush-shirt-and-pant uniform, watched Rabia and Zohra's exchange through a powerful pair of binoculars. He was smiling, as if in sync with Rabia's enthusiasm. He put down his binoculars and packed it away into a moth-eaten jute sack. He slung the bag over his shoulder. Then he picked up a worn-out broomstick propped against a water tank and walked off the terrace, down the stairs and into the teeming Kamathipura streets.

The uniform, the sack and the broomstick might have conveyed a 'municipal jamadar' to the casual observer, but a closer examination of the man's face would have revealed intelligence and education far beyond that of someone belonging to that particular profession.

◉

For the past fifteen minutes, Tanvir had been zigzagging as fast as possible through the streets, hoping that no one had identified him as a member of the crowd that had assaulted the policeman. His breath was ragged, and there was a patina of sweat on his forehead. Tanvir's eyes were darting over the passers-by, trying to spot anyone with an interest in him.

After a while, he entered a hole-in-the-wall teashop and found himself a broken bench in the innermost corner, next to the stinking kitchen area. The bench was at a strategic position, close to a possible escape route through the back door, which opened out into a kachra-riddled back lane with an even more overpowering stink.

He sat with his back to the wall, facing the street. Without taking his eyes off the street, he ordered a special chai. Almost instantly a cutting chai, with a small wisp of vapour seeping over the rim, was slammed in front of him. Tanvir was about to take a sip of the oversweet brown fluid when he froze.

The young man who had thrown the stone at the constable entered the shop and sat down opposite him. Tanvir's body tensed but he sat still. The stone thrower, too, ordered a special chai, which was once again slammed onto the table within seconds. He took a sip and shook his head, shuddering, as if the tea had rejuvenated his being. Tanvir, all this while, had been silent, watching him. A fly had fallen into Tanvir's tea glass. The stone thrower dipped two fingers into Tanvir's glass and scooped up the fly. He flicked the fly onto the dirty sidewall of the restaurant in an exaggerated action. He then flashed Tanvir a wide hyena-like smile. 'That's the way to deal with the irritating elements in our lives'

The stone thrower's smile cut the edge off the tension. Tanvir relaxed and smiled back, 'I was about to stop him...'

The stone thrower cut him short, 'But you were going to confront him, and thereby, expose yourself. Do that only when you are ready to lose everything.'

Tanvir nodded in understanding. His eyes took in the black taviz that peeped through the buttons of the stone thrower's thin polyester shirt.

'There is so much atrocity happening against our people. Sometimes, I want to do something. But I don't know what...' Tanvir trailed off.

The stone thrower's eyes shone. 'Are you sure you want to do something?'

Tanvir's face was hard. He nodded a firm 'yes'. The other man's eyes bore a hole into Tanvir's, but Tanvir managed to keep steady eye contact. After what seemed a lifetime, the stone thrower took out a pen and scribbled a mobile number on Tanvir's palm.

'Fearless men like you are needed all the time in the struggle against injustice.' The stone thrower winked as he got up. 'That is the direct number of our leader. Call him when you are ready', He got up and, with a few quick steps, was lost in the crowd outside the teashop.

◉

As Rabia and Zohra, clad in black silk burqas, made their way to the main road en route to the nikah shopping spree, Zohra couldn't help but think about the fateful night, five years ago, when she had first met Rabia.

After a week of incessant downpour, the rain had finally settled into a drizzle. As was always the case during such times, Zohra had been low on customers. Things would have been okay, were it not that she had been down with the flu the previous week. Her pimp was tightening the screws on her for the weekly protection money. Though she wouldn't have done so otherwise, this time Zohra had thrown caution to the winds and decided to go out looking for clients on the same main road to earn a quick buck. On drizzly nights like this, the road had big cars with fat customers and fancy tips. But on the flip side, there were also 'beaters', who liked to rough up prostitutes after sex.

Her worst fears had come true. Despite being choosy, Zohra had been trapped inside the plush leather interiors of a fancy car with one such 'beater' that night. She had been taken in by his stylish clothes, his perfume, the soft toys in the backseat that seemed to suggest a child and a wife waiting for him at home, and had decided that he must be a gentle soul. But, in the safety of the small lane behind Maratha Mandir Cinema, he had turned around and slapped Zohra as soon as she had unzipped him and found that his manhood, instead of responding to her ministrations, was in desperate need of medical intervention. The goddesses' photos on his dashboard had made Zohra laugh at the irony of it all. This had made him hit her harder.

After the first two blows, Zohra had been mentally resigning herself to a bruised face, when, out of the blue, a petite woman had smashed a rock on the windscreen of the car. The man had heaved with all the might left in him and pushed Zohra out. Backing out of the lane, he had zipped away to the safety of Malabar Hill or whatever posh neighbourhood he reeked of.

Zohra had picked herself up from the ground and turned to look at her saviour—the shivering, emaciated young woman with the rock in her hand. Zohra, at once, had known that she had found a kindred spirit in this innocent-looking girl-woman, She had taken Rabia's hand and led her out of the lane. Neither had thanked the other for the mutual help, for both realized that some things are best left unsaid.

Later, Zohra had come to know that Rabia had not eaten for four days. She had run away from her home in Haryana after being raped by the village sarpanch's son, a slick-haired youth who was being groomed to take over his father's position. 'Well-meaning' villagers had egged her on to complain against the rapist. But before she knew what was happening, it had blown up to become a communal issue. She would have been strung up on the same tree that provided shade to the village panchayat. But some humanity was still alive within the elders. They had passed an externment order instead, and pushed her out onto the highway.

One never-ending rape-cum-lorry ride later, she had found herself deposited on Mumbai's mean streets. Not wanting to be raped anymore, she had curled herself up under a cardboard carton in the nearest lane, prepared to die of hunger.

Rabia had shivered uncontrollably as she recounted her story to Zohra.

◉

Tanvir still sat quietly in the teashop. The thoughtful expression had returned on his face. He took small sips from the now tepid tea, as if trying to prolong the experience. His reverie was interrupted as a man in a khaki bush-shirt and pants emerged from the stinking back lane. This was the same man, the municipal jamadar who had been keenly observing Rabia through the binoculars across the building. He passed through the kitchen and entered the small sitting area of the teashop.

He sat down next to Tanvir, eyeing the road in a similar fashion. He didn't say a word, but a glass of chai was put in front of him. Ignoring it, he kept his eyes on the street.

After a while, Tanvir opened his palm and levelled it to the jamadar's line of sight. The jamadar let his eyes move across the number a few times, as if memorizing it. Satisfied, he smiled to himself. He now whispered without glancing at Tanvir, 'Call the number. Do as he says'

He then looked away into the distance, and was about to get up and leave when Tanvir spoke, 'What about Rabia?'

The jamadar sat down again and, without a change in expression, said, 'Forget Rabia. It's Aalamzeb we are after. You have drawn him out,
ab apun uska game baja dalenge.'

Tanvir looked amused. 'Speaking like a tapori doesn't suit you, ACP Hani.'

The jamadaar/ACP Hani replied, 'Okay, so if you'd like me to speak plainly, it's time we finished Aalamzeb.'

Tanvir's eyes flared. 'ACP Hani, I have done as I had promised; now
you
finish whoever you want, by yourself. I don't want to be involved in this any further'.

The ACP looked towards Tanvir for the first time. His eyes were cold, his face stony. 'The three attempt-to-murder charges against you will ensure your involvement, won't they? Or should I order an encounter to seek your further cooperation?'

Tanvir didn't back down but he did modulate his tone, adding a pinch of respect in it, 'ACP saab, it's because you had promised to get the attempted murder charges dropped that I undertook this assignment. I had only promised to use Rabia to make the contact with Aalamzeb. I've done that, now please, don't go back on your zubaan. The problem is, if my people find out that I'm helping the police, they'll brand me a "khabri". My career will be over.'

The ACP also softened his tone. 'You are helping the anti-terrorist squad nab Pakistani terrorists. Don't worry. Your gangster friends will understand. And my word is set in stone. You will be a free man soon. Just do this last bit. Draw Aalamzeb out into the open. You have gotten his mistress, Rabia, to fall in love with you, so he's made a wrong move. He's contacted you. He doesn't want to kill you because he feels he'll lose her forever. Poor man, he really loves her. He now wants to show Rabia that you are not the honest, upright man she thinks you are, but a man as ruthless as him. Play along. We will be watching over you. Aalamzeb is sure to make another wrong move, and then we'll get him and the four other Pakistanis, who are hiding somewhere in this city.'

'And Rabia?' Tanvir asked.

The ACP emitted a dry laugh. 'Who cares about a two-bit whore anyway... Uh...don't tell me you've fallen for her?'

Tanvir's expression was hard to decipher.

'Love is a weapon. In the right hands, it can make a kheema of the hardest heart,' said the ACP, while his eyes searched Tanvir's face. Tanvir did not flinch under the scrutiny. This seemed to satisfy the ACP. 'Good. Now please go, you have a phone call to make.' He got up and flung a last steel-tipped glance at Tanvir. Tanvir smiled back, his manner reassuring. ACP Hani picked up his broom and entered the kitchen area, exiting on to the back street, unmindful of the stench.

As the ACP disappeared from sight, the smile disappeared from Tanvir's face. He spat into his chai glass. Then he cursed and cursed. He cursed the day he had befriended Firoze Fateh Ali, the hotheaded gangster from Byculla, and had been recruited into his extortion syndicate. He cursed the day he had listened to Firozebhai's missive, and had graduated from being a small-time 'vasooli' to a 'shooter', by firing a shot at their rival, Pratap Pote. He had missed. He cursed the day when Pratap Pote had sent two of his shooters to finish him. Although he had had the presence of mind to stab both of them in the stomach and escape, he hated the fact that at that crucial moment, he had lacked the guts to push his knife further upwards and slice their hearts.

All the three gangsters had survived. Fearing retribution, Ferozebhai had taken off for Malaysia and become incommunicado, and Tanvir had gone into hiding in Indore. He had been trying to go straight, and put the past behind him, when ACP Hani had caught up with him and offered him a deal. He had grabbed the deal, thinking it to be an easy way out. But now, he realized he was a puppet on a string that was firmly in the ACP's grasp.

◉

The nondescript Mumbai Central branch of the State Bank of Punjab, located at the northern end of Falkland Road, was the financial hub of the neighbouring red-light area. Rabia and Zohra weaved their way through the traffic snarls on the road and entered the bank. Inside, Rabia went up to the cashier and handed her the withdrawal slip for 'Rupees one lakh thirty-two thousand and eighty only'. The cashier, unaccustomed to such large withdrawals, excused herself and went into the branch manager's glass cabin. A few minutes later, a lazy-looking peon came up to Rabia and asked her to accompany him to the manager.

Looking a little worried, Rabia entered the cabin. The cashier looked at her as if she had tried to rob the bank, but the manager's genial smile put her at ease. 'Beti, do you want to withdraw all your money and close your account permanently?' he asked. Relieved, Rabia smiled and replied, 'I had saved all this money for my nikah. I'm getting married today. So I'm withdrawing it all.'

The manager nodded but enquired, 'Congratulations, but shouldn't your husband-to-be take care of the nikah expenses?'

Rabia puffed up her chest. 'A modern girl shares all expenses with her husband.'

The manager nodded. 'I wish my daughter were as modern as you.' He signed on the withdrawal slip and asked the reluctant cashier to encash the amount. Rabia, grateful and relieved, thanked the manager and left.

She counted the notes and then rolled them up, tucking the roll deep into her small Rexine handbag. Then Zohra and she went off for their shopping spree.