Red Ink From The Octopus

So, armed with a letter from David Davidar—then editor of Penguin—I set up an appointment with a top cop. He was not exactly cooperative. “Mr Pillai,” he said, “the Bombay police has not commissioned you to write this book. So why should we give you any letter, protection or guarantee you immunity from the law? If you get caught, you get caught. Consider it an occupational hazard.” I left the police headquarters and mulled over what I was told over a glass of beer. The long and short of it was that the book never happened. In fact, I had forgotten all about the incident, the memory was only revived after I read about the arrest of journalist Jigna Vora in the J. Dey murder case.

Well, I don’t know the extent of her involvement or the validity of the police case against her. But I must confess that if my phone, or those of others covering the then glamorous crime beat, had been tapped, we would all have been in trouble. Reason: the bhai log talk loose on the phone, running down rivals, hurling abuse at the police, promising you favours (like using a bit of muscle to get you ownership of the flat you have rented). Should someone want to fix you, he could out a transcript and you might be seen as part of one gang or the other. You could be accused of working against the police. And in the 1980-90s, there were several reporters—both men and women—who, in the line of duty, interacted regularly with gangsters or their henchmen.

I was rather shocked at what happened and became cautious ever since. However, reporting out of Mumbai those days meant having to deal with the bhai log. And, being in the English media, you were much sought after, since in gangland terms a mention in the angrezi press was worth a thousand words in the Marathi or Urdu media. But coming back to the curious case of Jigna Vora, one can only say that as a journalist one has to be careful to keep a safe distance from the mob and seek no favours or help. For the benefactor bhai could well turn out to be demonic. And in this day and age of tapping, one has to be careful about what one says over the phone. The problem is, if you know too much, there will be several vested interests.

Indeed, one incident I remember was the result of a phone call. It was from someone who claimed he was Dawood Ibrahim’s financial advisor. And he used a college reference from Thiruvananthapuram to induce me to come to his hotel in Khar. When I reached there, the Black Label was in place. (The bhai, like all good Mallus, hit the bottle in the afternoon so that he would not have a late night.) The chicken tikka was in place, too. I silently sipped, while he did most of the talking. And even though I must admit to a liking for Scotch, I became a bit queasy after the first few drinks.

Edge writing Would Naipaul have been held too?

Reason: the bhai claimed he had come on Dawood’s private yacht. He’d disembarked somewhere off the Gujarat coast and had driven down to Mumbai. “I’m wanted by the police here for FERA and stuff,” he said, as he pulled at his cigarette. “Do you know anyone in the law ministry in Delhi?” he asked. I confessed I was pretty clueless in that department. “Why are you a journalist then?” he wondered. He obviously expected me to have some clout and said he was impressed by a reference to me in V.S. Naipaul’s Million Mutinies Now. I had accompanied the writer to a ‘safe’ house for sharpshooters in Dadar which found mention in the book. Now, in retrospect, I wonder if Sir Vidia was putting himself at risk by interviewing some mafiosi.

Anyway, the bhai moved on. In the next 15 minutes he went about parading his own influence. He called up Taqiuddin Wahid of East West airlines. “That’s our airline. Anytime you want to fly, it’s free for you,” he pronounced. Then he called up a few hotels. “You can drink free at all these places,” he declared. But the final nail was a suitcase full of currency notes meant for a leading lawyer. That did it. I bid my farewell.... One had to draw the line because it was getting too scary. My instict told me to scram and leave the bhai to his own devices.