AN EVENING IN POLICE DARBAR

The court has two sections: Darbar-e-Aam & Darbar-e-Khaas

Mateen Hafeez TNN

It was the day’s breaking news: a former secret service agent with the world’s most powerful intelligence agencies had been held for joining hands with terror outfits. Foreign news channels were hinting at the agent’s possible role in Mumbai’s terror strike on November 26, 2008. This little info was enough to excite the city’s crime reporters .

Around 5 pm, all the reporters from various newspapers gathered at a senior cop’s office for “more dope about the case”. Now, this evening meeting, a ritual among crime reporters, was known as Darbar and was held twice a week. Like the royal court of Mughal emperor Akbar, this one too has two sections: Deewan-e-Aam and Deewane-Khaas. It was aam (common) darbar when all journalists together sought bites from this officer, known for his subtle charm and record at cracking high-profile cases. After this, reporters trooped out but some invariably reentered for a secret talk that almost always never exceeded two minutes. This was Darbar-e-Khaas. Preparation for this meeting was set right in the aam meeting: some would SMS their question to officer even though he was barely five feet away, while some would pass a chit to him. The officer would always cooperate, mindful of the media’s need for secrecy.

On that day, reporters waited outside the officer’s chamber, each sending a word to him about the need for a darbar. The minute the officer rang the bell, the desperate-for-news reporters barged in. If the officer was offended with their haste, his smile gave nothing away. He ensured that all the 20 journalists, who entered his chamber, were seated before starting.

“Tell us about the agent’s role in the attack,” asked a journalist. Even before the officer could reply, another asked, “Does the police have the names of hotels he stayed in Mumbai and were you aware about his visit?” The officer kept looking on. Another reporter pipped in, “Sir, the foreign federal agency soures have said the agent did a recce of important installations. Are you aware?” The officer replied, “No comment!” The journalists did not surrender. “Have you visited the hotels the agent had stayed and recorded the staff ’s statement?” asked a senior reporter. “No comments,” the officer said, adding, “It not our case. Why don’t you inquire with those who arrested the agent”. A TV reporter persisted: “Have you spoken to the Indian federal agency since the places the agent visited were earlier targeted during terror strike. Don’t you want to question the agent ?”

The officer refused to budge: “No comment. We have filed a chargesheet and the foreign agent is not accused in our case.”

As the officer persisted in keeping mum, the scribes changed their track. Their questions made way for appeals. A reporter said, “Sir, don’t do this to us. Our editors are waiting for some info.” The man in khakhi didn’t budge: “I don’t know about it.” At this point, the journos appeared to press the panic buttons. “Sir, kuch toh dana paani dal do. Naukri ka sawal hai!” a reporter known for his close equation with the officer pleaded. Another tried flattery: “Sir, we know you will not let us return empty handed.” The officer kept repeating: “I have only two words: No comments.” It seemed to be make-or-break point for one of the journalists, who literally grovelled: “The future of journalism is in your hands, sir.” He continued, “Hamari news ki bhook mita do, hum chale jayenge.” The officer gave no indication if he enjoyed the drama, but he did break his silence. “We knew about the agent’s visit for the last month,” the officer whispered. Most reporters began jotting down in haste as the cop suddenly slipped into his role as a raconteur: he praised his unit for getting information “even before country’s federal agency”. The off-the-record session had just begun, and the reporters were savouring every line. A section of old-timer reporters often remarked that this officer is the best story-teller. The chamber was silent except the officer’s suave tones. Suddenly, a young reporter broke the reverie by asking about the police action vis-à-vis the agent. The officer ignored, offering other story ideas. The young man persisted: “Earlier you said some Mumbai guy did the recce, now the agent’s name has cropped up. Who actually did this?” The officer replied as calmly as ever: “I don’t know about the agent. But, in our case, the Mumbai guy did the recce. You can write this”.

The youngster suddenly got up and retorted with a wide grin: “Janab! I am a journalist and not a stenographer.” But his flourish was largely ignored both by the top cop and other journos. The darbar was still on…


The Times of India, December 23, 2010

Too much ado over INFORMATION - Sometimes, Informers Hide Much More Than They Reveal

Mateen Hafeez | TNN

It was perhaps a first-ofits-kind press conference held by police informers at Nagpada, the birthplace of Mumbai’s underworld. On a bright sunny day in 2009, an SMS floated among crime reporters informing them of a press conference called by police informers, to ‘reveal’ the murderers of their mentor.



Around 100 journalists from the print, electronic and web media descended upon a dingy, overcrowded and congested chawl, curious to find out if the nameless, faceless informers would finally blow their cover. But the curiosity was short-lived. The informers did arrive, their faces covered by hoods or handkerchiefs.

“The Dawood Ibrahim gang is behind this murder,” said one into the microphone. We were shocked, as he made the statement just 500 metres from where Dawood’s sister, Haseena Parkar, stayed. “He (Dawood) had plotted this murder since we were after his gang,’’ the informer added in a speech scripted from a Bollywood blockbuster. The informer claimed how his clan endangered their lives to serve the country. Unlike a common man’s life, their lives were shrouded in secrecy. And he signed off ominously: “We know our lives are in danger but if the police don’t act immediately against the person we suspect, around 300 informers in the city will go on strike.”

Soon after the “press conference” was over, an informer, whom I knew for a couple of years, offered me a cup of tea. Finally, I thought, here was a perfect chance to get the real story, and accepted his offer readily. In his late 20s, the informer is an Arts graduate from a reputed college and is associated with several small-time politicians. He took me to a restaurant. A group of half-a-dozen informers were already there, the first time I saw them up close, their faces uncovered. “Janab, yeh apne patrakar dost hain,’’ he introduced me to them.

Meanwhile, a Chevrolet followed by a Honda City and two Taveras appeared near the restaurant. The informer who got down from the Chevrolet went by the code of Black Zero, named after an adventure novel character. Black Zero looked at me and exclaimed, “Arre bhai, it’s been ages since I saw you. Where are you nowadays?” he asked while pulling up a chair.

Black Zero’s association with the police went back to over a decade. First, he was arrested for assaulting his classmate in college. Later, he befriended policemen and helped them in several raids. Dressed in a crisp, white shirt and blue jeans, Black Zero sported Ray Ban glasses, a diamond studded wrist watch and Nike shoes. “So did you convey everything to the media what we discussed earlier?” he asked one of the informers while lighting up a cigarette. “I want those crooks behind bars. I am still alive. I won’t sit quietly until the murderers are arrested,” he added dramatically.

I was getting closer to my story, or so I believed. “Last week, the Dawood gang attacked one of our colleagues but the police is not doing anything as they get their hafta from the gang,’’ he said while his cronies nodded their heads in unison.

“Bhai, a businessman is creating trouble over a property dispute. He was long ago associated with a gangster’s brother-in-law. Can we ask our ‘contacts’ (policemen) to summon him for questioning,’’ one informer asked Black Zero. “How much cut we can get?” a young informer asked agitatedly. “I will talk to senior officers,” said Black Zero. “The Lal Topis (another group of informers) in Grant Road had given a tip-off, settled an issue with the police and also took lots of money from the suspect. Can’t we rake up this issue in the media?’’ he looked askance at me. No, I told him, growing impatient about when the real ‘information’ I was waiting for would come.

But the conversation instead turned to how a senior cop was ‘meherbaan’ over a rival group of informers. “They are making money and the hafta is going right up to the top. We will have to do something to divert that officer’s attention,’’ Black Zero said.

Realising that I had to find a way out of the circus, I made an excuse to slip out and return to office. The press conference, I realised, was more a show of strength by the informers to pressurise the police into action, than for giving any real information about the killer’s identity.

The Times of India, January 11, 2010

A NIGHT IN THE LINE OF FIRE

With bullets whizzing past and people dropping dead around him, this crime reporter suddenly felt he was trapped in a war zone on 26/11

Mateen Hafeez
Iwas about to sit down to dinner at home when the first SMS beeped on my phone. It was about 10 pm on 26/11 when the text message from my colleague informed me about ‘random’ firing outside CST railway station. Even before I could dial the police control room to find out more, a call from an all-too-familiar number—the office board line—flashed on my cell.

Moments later, the city editor told me to rush to office. I realized it was something big and ran out after grabbing some food.

The scene outside the J J School of Art was eerie. The area had been cordoned off, barricades had been placed across roads and reporters from some news channels were busy talking to “eyewitnesses”. In the background, there was a constant noise, akin to fire-crackers going off. The eyewitnesses told us bullets were being fired, but there was no official confirmation as to what was happening.

What was I going to tell my editors—it’s a gang war...no, it’s a crazed gunman...wait,it’s a terror attack? I started when there was a sudden tap on my shoulder,but was relieved to see a couple of colleagues standing beside me, looking as clueless as I felt. With no information available from the police at the site or over the phone,we decided to walk to the police headquarters a few metres away for “authentic information’’.But we were denied entry for “security reasons’’.

A month after the attacks, the most persistent memory of that ‘terror day’ is the total lack of information in the first couple of hours after two terrorists sprayed bullets into innocent people at CST. Gradually, I realised this wasn’t a grand design or a misplaced attempt to hold back information from people, it was rather a pathetic display of the breakdown of all communication channels—no one knew where to get help and from whom.

Outside the police commissionerate, the scene seemed to be straight out of a war movie. All passersby were asked to put up their hands and were
frisked. Even women and old men were not spared the drill, but as I was to find out half an hour later, this too didn’t help.

It was around 11 pm that my colleague and I reached Vasudev Balwant Phadke Chowk, better known as Metro circle. The only thing I was clear about now (after stringing together information available from various sources and colleagues at several spots in south Mumbai) was that it was indeed a terror strike. I tried to strike a conversation with every police official visible on the road and to engage locals in small talk, but there was little I could glean. In between, there were umpteen interruptions from reporter-friends who had reached home before the attack began and wanted updates.

My frustration was growing when, around 11.30 pm, a police vehicle appeared from the St Xavier’s lane and slowed down around 200 ft from the Metro junction. Some journalists rushed to the vehicle in the hope that they could get an update from the policemen. Instead, a volley of bullets greeted them. A man in the jeep shot randomly from a pistol in his outstretched hand. Two persons standing near me were hit and fell to the ground. I lay down flat as the bullets whizzed past.

The vehicle sped away even as someone shouted, “Woh log police ki gaadi me bhaage hain
(they have fled in the police vehicle).’’ As I attempted to get up, I realised that the person lying next to me was dead. TOI’s photo editor, who was barely a few metres away from me, realised that a bullet had grazed his shirt sleeve.

It was my closest brush with terror so far. During earlier assignments, I had reached the terror sites only after the carnage was over. But this time, I was in the middle of it. Everyone around us who had been caught in that unfortunate spot at an inopportune time was babbling on about their good fortune to have escaped alive.

Half-an-hour later, we heard over the police vehicle’s wireless that two of the terrorists had been accosted at Girgaum Chowpatty. One died and the other, Ajmal Kasab, continues to make international headlines a month after the attacks.

I realised that the horrific night was not yet over when a TV reporter called me to ask whether ATS chief Hemant Karkare had been injured in the terror attack. I called Karkare’s orderly, Akhtar Shaikh, to check on this and he broke down, “Sahab nahi rahe. Sahab guzar gaye.’’ The next 30 minutes were a blur, with colleagues calling up with various leads. “Encounter specialist Vijay Salaskar is dead, please check. Is ATS cop Hemant Karkare dead too? Are IPS officers Sadanand Date and Ashok Kamte dead?’’

We made our way to J J Hospital’s morgue to look for the answers. The scene there was chaotic, with doctors and social workers rushing to ambulances. I saw Hemant Karkare’s wife Kavita in one corner. As a reporter covering the activities of the ATS, I spoke to her husband every day. I wondered for a moment whether I should speak to her, but decided against it. I turned to a senior IPS officer instead, who confirmed that Karkare was no more, and added that Date had only sustained injuries.

A little past 2.30 am, I trudged back home, physically worn out and mentally bludgeoned. It seemed as though the world had changed drastically in the four hours that I had been out on the street.

(This is the third in a series in which TOI reporters narrate the stories behind the news or tell the tale of the city through the people they meet)

The Times of India, December 26, 2008

An Unlocked CELL BEHIND Prison Walls

Every visit to Arthur Road Jail, India’s most sensitive lock-up, can be an adventure in itself

Mateen Hafeez | TNN

It was an eye camp for undertrials in the country’s most sensitive prison, Arthur Road Jail. Not exactly an eye-popping assignment, but a worthy excuse for the motley tribe of crime reporters to enter the highsecurity hub.

I walked past the main gate towards the smaller padlocked one where a pot-bellied constable with a walrus moustache asked, “Whom do you want to meet?’’ I flashed my press card and he ambled across to open the gate. “How many times a day do you unlock this gate?’’ I asked.

I don’t know if he was joking, but he tonelessly offered, “Around 500 times.’’ His colleague mechanically added, “Switch off your cellphone.’’ I promptly did so.

Blame it on my heightened consciousness in top-security settings or the eclectic nature of the inmates at Arthur Road Jail, but each visit there has been an adventure in itself. I bumped into a convict sweeping the courtyard. I asked him for directions to the eye camp, but he only glowered back. Then he discovered I was a reporter and a strange misery crossed his face: “Aap mera ek kaam kar denge kya ?’’ he pleaded. He wanted me to ask his relatives to come meet him. I asked, “Can’t you ask the jailer to call your relatives?’’ He simply scooted off.

At the hospital (which looked more like a dispensary), there was a long queue of undertrials in jeans, trousers, lungis, shorts and whathave-yous. I focused on a known face—a man in jeans and black Tshirt who was an accused in the 1993 serial blasts case. In his early 30s, he was always clean shaven, sported gelled hair, and wore neat footwear and ironed clothes. I killed the urge to ask Hazrat (as I call him) the secret of his natty appearance, and instead queried: “Do all these men have eye problems?’’ Hazrat, the cool bhai, answered: “Most have come to collect the free sunglasses.’’

He then introduced me to a “special’’ person. “Bhai, yeh newspaper se aaye hain,’’ he told a man in his early 50s. I recognised the salt-and-pepper-haired gent from his news photos. He was also an accused in the serial blasts case and had been deported from the UAE. Here’s a real bhai, I said to myself. Surrounded by half-a-dozen cronies, he looked at me sharply before unexpectedly asking, “Aren’t you the journalist who got bashed up by a gangster a few years ago?’’ I said “yes’’ and added that I had filed a police case. The bhai took out a madein-Yemen Rothmans and lit up. Half his cronies followed suit.

``Why don’t you write about the stinking toilets, broken rooms and stale food here?’’ he asked. Pointing to a police constable, he added, “These babas (constables) are corrupt. They provide everything if they are paid. I have told my men not to pay them a single paisa. If they ask for a bribe, I will talk to their bosses.’’

A famished-looking criminal, wearing a dirty, reeking T-shirt, stopped by to ask for a cigarette stub. “Take it and get lost,’’ one of the cronies growled. Dozens of other petty criminals watched the bhai’s battalion. One gathered the courage to say, “Bhai, we need your help to fight our legal cases. We are poor. We have been framed.’’

“I am not Haatim Tai to shower money on others. However, I will see what can be done about you,’’ the bhai replied and asked one of his men to collect the details. This was how gangsters enlisted men. Offer a small favour, forge a bond.

Hazrat brought me back to the real world. “Write about the doctors here,’’ he said. “We have two. One is a child specialist and the other has come from a post-mortem centre. They give the same medicines for everything, without listening to the patients’ problems properly.’’ It was apparent that Hazrat was using me to flaunt his ‘connections’ to the people around.

When the meeting ended, Hazrat asked to use my mobile phone. I tried to shake him off by saying, “My phone’s not working because of the mobile-jammer installed here.’’ But he persisted: “The jammer is of low quality and dysfunctional. It seems you don’t want to give me your mobile. It’s OK, but remember how D K Rao (a gangster) had used a phone and three SIM cards before the crime branch seized them?’’

Hazrat said he was writing a book on the jail. I wished him luck and left to get details for my story. After collecting information, I switched on my cell just for kicks. Within seconds, the metro editor called. “Do you have a story?’’ he asked. I don’t remember my answer. I was still digesting the fact that my cell phone was working inside Arthur Road Jail.

mateen.hafeez@timesgroup.com

(This is the 13th and the last in a series in which TOI reporters speak of an unforgettable experience during their assignments in the year that has just ended.)

The Times of India, January 6, 2008

It’s a win-win deal for beggars & businessmen

Mateen Hafeez | TNN

Mumbai: Nizambhai runs a fairly successful business close to Byculla bridge. His tobacco stall, located near the road leading to Nagpada, draws a constant stream of smokers and paan lovers. But that’s not really the secret of Nizambhai’s success.

A large chunk of his profits come from a surreptitious arrangement that he has with a group of beggars in the neighbourhood. They hand over all their earnings to him for safekeeping; he earns the interest but ensures their money is protected. “These beggars sleep near my shop. They hand over between Rs 200 to Rs 400 per day. But since I can’t keep all the money at my residence or shop, I’ve started putting it in fixed deposits. Whenever they ask for it, I give it,’’ he says.

The transactions are sizeable considering the shopkeeper deposits over Rs 9 lakh a year from the funds accumulated by the 13 beggars under his charge. “I earn a lot of interest but whenever any of them requires money to send home or to visit their native place, I’m prompt with the payment,’’ says Nizambhai.

The beggars, not many of whom are known to keep bank accounts, need to protect their earnings from petty thugs and beat cops patrolling the streets. It’s a mutually beneficial agreement though the shopkeeper does try to put an altruistic spin on the deal by saying, “They are socially ostracised, I think it’s my duty to take care of their earnings.’’

In the bylanes of central and south Mumbai, numerous small commercial establishments are known to maintain such arrangements. Farhad Seth at Grant Road, who runs a Grade III eatery, says the benefits go far beyond the mere earnings on deposits. A steady supply of loose change, for instance, is among the perquisites. Farhad pays a 10% commission over the value of the change, and if the amount is large, say around Rs 500, he throws in a meal of dal-rice as well. He has been managing funds for about 10 beggars for the last seven to
eight years but prefers to park it in his savings account.

“Earlier they would come here to hand over change but after a while many of them began requesting me to keep their money,’’ says Farhad. The chaps who deal with him make Rs 200-400 a day. The experienced ones earn as much as Rs 70,000 a year despite a couple of long holidays.

Barring a small portion of funds set aside for daily needs or things like bidis, cigarettes or liquor, all the money is deposited in the bank. “Sometimes they get smart by saying they had given me more money, but we maintain an account book,’’ says Farhad.

Paan-beedi shops, tea stall owners, newspaper vendors and restaurants also get the beggars they deal with to spend their nights outside their shops. This is to ensure a certain level of security. “We don’t need a watchman or security guard. Besides, they keep the area clean and are early risers,’’ say an eating house owner.

Lucky, who begs at a traffic junction in Mumbai Central and keeps his money with a shopkeeper near Mahalaxmi, says the relationship is one of trust. “On many occasions, I buy vegetables, cigarettes and other things for him. When I leave for my hometown he takes care of my belongings,’’ says Lucky.

The Times of India, February 13, 2007