At about eleven on 21 January 1995, the morning after Raman had received his mole’s call, Satish Jha called me up. I was DIG of the STF then, based in Delhi. He gave me the details of the intelligence input and sought further instructions. He had already ascertained the address of the premises where the landline number given by the mole was installed, with the help of JV Ramudu, the then zonal DCP (now the police chief of Andhra Pradesh) in Hyderabad.
I asked Satish to proceed by the first available flight to Hyderabad along with Inspector Raman Tyagi. The SP wanted one more trusted officer, namely Inspector DK Pardesi, to accompany him. I asked him to go ahead and informed him that I too would try to reach Hyderabad the same evening.
Satish and his officers, inspectors Raman Tyagi and DK Pardesi, reached Hyderabad that evening by eight and I reached by nine-thirty. We were booked to stay at the Andhra Pradesh Police Officers’ Mess at Masab Tank, near Banjara Hills. However, I chose to drive straight to the office of the ACP, Begumpet, Secunderabad – the twin city of Hyderabad, then the capital of undivided Andhra Pradesh. The CBI officer who came to receive me at the airport informed me that my colleagues from Mumbai were waiting for me there.
By the time I reached the rendezvous point, Raman and Pardesi had recced the ground-floor flat of KR Tyagi, where the target phone was installed. The CBI inspectors discreetly noted the location of the premises. Raman had then informed his mole that his senior officers and he himself (Raman) were in Hyderabad. The phone number of the ACP’s office, our makeshift base camp located not far from the flat, had also been shared with the informer. The team headed by Satish Jha had done everything that was required to be done as part of the plan hatched by the informer. We all waited anxiously in the ACP’s office for the final go-ahead from the mole.
To our complete horror, after a brief hiatus, Raman appeared with a long face before Satish Jha and me.
He reported: “Sir, my informer called. There was a change of heart among the big bosses in the gang. They tipped off Salim Kurla, saying, ‘Doctor saab aa rahen hain. Nikal lo. (A police team is on its way. Leave quickly.)’” The mole was not answering his phone thereafter.
Raman stood before us, dejected and embarrassed. I lost my cool and upbraided him for the poor quality of the information he had gathered. What did he mean by “change of heart”? Raman offered an explanation: apparently, Dawood and his younger brother Anees had got tired of Salim Kurla’s frequent demands for money to sustain his family and himself. Occasionally, they had hinted to him that he was better off on his own, but since Salim was on the run it was difficult for him to generate any income.
In the cruel world of the mafiosi, someone close today can become disposable the next day, particularly when a gang member becomes a liability. Salim Kurla, a trusted and loyal aide, who had played a role in the conspiracy behind the serial blasts in Mumbai, had, with passage of time, become an irritant with his persistent demands for more and more money.
That was the time the two brothers – Dawood Ibrahim and Anees Ibrahim – asked their trusted aide (Raman’s mole) to tip off the police and have Kurla arrested. However, as the impending raid and Kurla’s nemesis drew closer, the two brother dons had second thoughts. They fondly recalled the risks Salim had taken in the past in their service. They also thought of Salim’s wife and three children. Anees himself called up Salim and asked him to run, as quickly as he could. Salim had left the same morning and, presumably, would have by then travelled hundreds of miles away.
Besides being deeply disappointed, other mundane but serious worries haunted me. I could foresee the problems that awaited me back in Delhi. I had verbally given my approval to Satish Jha for the air travel of Raman Tyagi and DK Pardesi, who were not entitled to fly. As per official norms, as a DIG, I was not authorised to do so. At the time of giving the go-ahead to Satish Jha for his officers’ air travel, I was reasonably sure that the operation would succeed, in which case there would be no difficulty in getting the necessary approvals from my bosses post facto. But the operation had failed even before it had begun.
Raman had to hear all this and much more from me, spoken in not the most pleasant of tones.
With drooping shoulders and head bowed, he stood before us, crestfallen and guilt-ridden. I rubbed it in by letting him know that I had left important tasks in Delhi and travelled unnecessarily to Hyderabad, thanks to his half-baked intelligence input.
Having given adequate vent to my disappointment and anguish, I now had to decide what to do next. Left with practically no option but to wind up, forget all about Salim Kurla and return to the Hyderabad Police Mess to retire for the day, Satish and I began our long drive back.
I clearly remember that drive in a CBI car, with Satish and me in the rear seat. It started rather gloomily, with an uneasy silence enveloping us. I looked out of my car window and Satish stared into the darkness from his side, as we drove from Begumpet towards the Police Mess. I was still in a foul mood and, I suppose, Satish was equally cut up.
Out of the blue, in the midst of despair and distress, a thought crossed my mind.
Our boys had seen the premises where the landline was installed. Why not at least go and see it. Right then, as if some sort of telepathy was at play, Satish spoke up: “Sir, what do we lose by visiting the flat where Salim Kurla was hiding?” It was one of those moments when two people sitting together are struck by a common epiphany, but are hesitant to voice it first. I told Satish he had stolen the words from my mouth.
We asked our driver to stop. Raman, who was in a vehicle following us, walked up to our car. Satish instructed him to lead us to the recced flat. Inspectors Raman Tyagi and DK Pardesi piloted us to a four-storied residential building in the middle of a vast swathe of land covered in darkness. A few houses – some complete, some under construction – dotted the dark landscape, while a street light or two flickered and blinked laboriously, struggling to fight for survival. Quite clearly, it was another of those unplanned and unauthorised colonies that sprout up in the suburbs of most Indian cities.
We stopped our vehicles at a distance from the house where Salim Kurla had resided before escaping, and began to walk stealthily towards it. As we came closer, we found to our surprise the doors of the ground-floor flat wide open. A brightly lit room appeared before us with loud Hindi film music playing from a stereo system. There was no one in the room. We walked in and found ourselves in the middle of a large and reasonably well-furnished living room. After a few shouts of “Koi hai? (Is someone there?),” a ten-year-old boy appeared.
Strangely, he was unimpressed on seeing us. We asked him for his parents, who too emerged from an adjoining room almost simultaneously, most unfazed by the presence of so many strangers. When we introduced ourselves as CBI officers, they asked us to sit down, and offered refreshments. We politely declined.
On being asked whether the landline number 8131xx was installed in their house, their response was in the affirmative. When asked if any outsider used the phone occasionally, they again said yes. They further disclosed that the occupant of the second-floor flat, namely Ahmad, used their phone once in a while. Inspector Raman Tyagi showed the photograph of Salim Kurla to the flat owner, KR Tyagi, who confirmed that it was indeed the same person.
When we went up to the second floor, we found a huge lock hanging at the door.
Tyagi and family, the occupants of the ground floor, informed that Ahmad sahib, as Salim Kurla was known to them, had left the same morning with his wife and three children in a Fiat. They gave us the car’s registration number, colour and other description. As a routine response, we asked the Hyderabad Police officers, accompanying us as support staff, to broadcast the details over police wireless. Nothing further was left to be done at the spot.
Satish and I decided to leave for the Police Mess. As we were about to depart, the young boy, pointing to a two-wheeler parked in the open, right outside the house, said, “Uncle, yeh scooter unhi ka hai (This scooter is his).” Salim had left his scooter behind as he could not have possibly driven both his car and the two-wheeler. We paused for a moment and, out of sheer police instinct, decided to leave inspectors Tyagi and Pardesi behind.
Though it was most improbable, hypothetically there was still a slim chance that Salim might return to pick up his scooter. The inspectors and Sub-Inspector V Rao of Hyderabad Police stayed back close to the apartment building to keep watch, just in case our intuition was right.
On reaching my room in the Police Mess I had a quick shower before getting into my sleeping suit. But for some snacks eaten at the ACP’s office, I had gone without dinner. It was sleep that I needed the most, after a disappointing and distressing evening. It was already well past midnight. I switched off the room’s light and lay down.
Just as my head was about to hit the pillow, there was a knock on the door.
I thought it must be a kind soul from the mess staff who had come to ask if I needed something to eat. After switching on the light, I opened the door, only to find inspectors Raman Tyagi and Pardesi with a tall, well-built man, looking a bit familiar, sandwiched between them. Raman lost no time in informing me that the person with them was none other than Salim Kurla!
I quickly changed and went down to the mess lounge to speak to Raman, Pardesi and Salim. Meanwhile, Satish had been given the good news and he too joined us. Raman narrated the sequence of events leading to Salim’s arrest thus:
Soon after our departure from that house, CBI inspector Raman Tyagi along with Pardesi and Sub-Inspector Rao of Hyderabad Police waited patiently, keeping an eye on the scooter. They spotted an autorickshaw approach the area and stop at a distance. After a few minutes, the headlight was switched off and a tall figure emerged from the passenger seat of the three-wheeler. He stood tentatively, silhouetted against the faint light in the area, looked around a bit, and began to walk towards the building under the cover of darkness. The police officers hid behind the bushes on the side of the kaccha road leading up to the house.
As the tall figure came within their reach, the cops emerged from their hiding and surrounded him. They frisked him to make sure he wasn’t armed. On being asked who he was, he first said he was Firoze Ahmed Pasha. But when shown his photograph, he admitted that he was indeed Salim Kurla. As we had anticipated intuitively, he had come that late to pick up his scooter.
When asked about the whereabouts of his family, he refused to reveal any details. The officers slowly walked him to the autorickshaw that had ferried him to the place. The driver, Syed Yusuf, when questioned, informed them that he had picked up Salim from near Hotel Heritage, Sindhi Colony, Secunderabad.
Excerpted with permission from Dial D for Don, Neeraj Kumar, Penguin Books India.
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I asked Satish to proceed by the first available flight to Hyderabad along with Inspector Raman Tyagi. The SP wanted one more trusted officer, namely Inspector DK Pardesi, to accompany him. I asked him to go ahead and informed him that I too would try to reach Hyderabad the same evening.
Satish and his officers, inspectors Raman Tyagi and DK Pardesi, reached Hyderabad that evening by eight and I reached by nine-thirty. We were booked to stay at the Andhra Pradesh Police Officers’ Mess at Masab Tank, near Banjara Hills. However, I chose to drive straight to the office of the ACP, Begumpet, Secunderabad – the twin city of Hyderabad, then the capital of undivided Andhra Pradesh. The CBI officer who came to receive me at the airport informed me that my colleagues from Mumbai were waiting for me there.
By the time I reached the rendezvous point, Raman and Pardesi had recced the ground-floor flat of KR Tyagi, where the target phone was installed. The CBI inspectors discreetly noted the location of the premises. Raman had then informed his mole that his senior officers and he himself (Raman) were in Hyderabad. The phone number of the ACP’s office, our makeshift base camp located not far from the flat, had also been shared with the informer. The team headed by Satish Jha had done everything that was required to be done as part of the plan hatched by the informer. We all waited anxiously in the ACP’s office for the final go-ahead from the mole.
To our complete horror, after a brief hiatus, Raman appeared with a long face before Satish Jha and me.
He reported: “Sir, my informer called. There was a change of heart among the big bosses in the gang. They tipped off Salim Kurla, saying, ‘Doctor saab aa rahen hain. Nikal lo. (A police team is on its way. Leave quickly.)’” The mole was not answering his phone thereafter.
Raman stood before us, dejected and embarrassed. I lost my cool and upbraided him for the poor quality of the information he had gathered. What did he mean by “change of heart”? Raman offered an explanation: apparently, Dawood and his younger brother Anees had got tired of Salim Kurla’s frequent demands for money to sustain his family and himself. Occasionally, they had hinted to him that he was better off on his own, but since Salim was on the run it was difficult for him to generate any income.
In the cruel world of the mafiosi, someone close today can become disposable the next day, particularly when a gang member becomes a liability. Salim Kurla, a trusted and loyal aide, who had played a role in the conspiracy behind the serial blasts in Mumbai, had, with passage of time, become an irritant with his persistent demands for more and more money.
That was the time the two brothers – Dawood Ibrahim and Anees Ibrahim – asked their trusted aide (Raman’s mole) to tip off the police and have Kurla arrested. However, as the impending raid and Kurla’s nemesis drew closer, the two brother dons had second thoughts. They fondly recalled the risks Salim had taken in the past in their service. They also thought of Salim’s wife and three children. Anees himself called up Salim and asked him to run, as quickly as he could. Salim had left the same morning and, presumably, would have by then travelled hundreds of miles away.
Besides being deeply disappointed, other mundane but serious worries haunted me. I could foresee the problems that awaited me back in Delhi. I had verbally given my approval to Satish Jha for the air travel of Raman Tyagi and DK Pardesi, who were not entitled to fly. As per official norms, as a DIG, I was not authorised to do so. At the time of giving the go-ahead to Satish Jha for his officers’ air travel, I was reasonably sure that the operation would succeed, in which case there would be no difficulty in getting the necessary approvals from my bosses post facto. But the operation had failed even before it had begun.
Raman had to hear all this and much more from me, spoken in not the most pleasant of tones.
With drooping shoulders and head bowed, he stood before us, crestfallen and guilt-ridden. I rubbed it in by letting him know that I had left important tasks in Delhi and travelled unnecessarily to Hyderabad, thanks to his half-baked intelligence input.
Having given adequate vent to my disappointment and anguish, I now had to decide what to do next. Left with practically no option but to wind up, forget all about Salim Kurla and return to the Hyderabad Police Mess to retire for the day, Satish and I began our long drive back.
I clearly remember that drive in a CBI car, with Satish and me in the rear seat. It started rather gloomily, with an uneasy silence enveloping us. I looked out of my car window and Satish stared into the darkness from his side, as we drove from Begumpet towards the Police Mess. I was still in a foul mood and, I suppose, Satish was equally cut up.
Out of the blue, in the midst of despair and distress, a thought crossed my mind.
Our boys had seen the premises where the landline was installed. Why not at least go and see it. Right then, as if some sort of telepathy was at play, Satish spoke up: “Sir, what do we lose by visiting the flat where Salim Kurla was hiding?” It was one of those moments when two people sitting together are struck by a common epiphany, but are hesitant to voice it first. I told Satish he had stolen the words from my mouth.
We asked our driver to stop. Raman, who was in a vehicle following us, walked up to our car. Satish instructed him to lead us to the recced flat. Inspectors Raman Tyagi and DK Pardesi piloted us to a four-storied residential building in the middle of a vast swathe of land covered in darkness. A few houses – some complete, some under construction – dotted the dark landscape, while a street light or two flickered and blinked laboriously, struggling to fight for survival. Quite clearly, it was another of those unplanned and unauthorised colonies that sprout up in the suburbs of most Indian cities.
We stopped our vehicles at a distance from the house where Salim Kurla had resided before escaping, and began to walk stealthily towards it. As we came closer, we found to our surprise the doors of the ground-floor flat wide open. A brightly lit room appeared before us with loud Hindi film music playing from a stereo system. There was no one in the room. We walked in and found ourselves in the middle of a large and reasonably well-furnished living room. After a few shouts of “Koi hai? (Is someone there?),” a ten-year-old boy appeared.
Strangely, he was unimpressed on seeing us. We asked him for his parents, who too emerged from an adjoining room almost simultaneously, most unfazed by the presence of so many strangers. When we introduced ourselves as CBI officers, they asked us to sit down, and offered refreshments. We politely declined.
On being asked whether the landline number 8131xx was installed in their house, their response was in the affirmative. When asked if any outsider used the phone occasionally, they again said yes. They further disclosed that the occupant of the second-floor flat, namely Ahmad, used their phone once in a while. Inspector Raman Tyagi showed the photograph of Salim Kurla to the flat owner, KR Tyagi, who confirmed that it was indeed the same person.
When we went up to the second floor, we found a huge lock hanging at the door.
Tyagi and family, the occupants of the ground floor, informed that Ahmad sahib, as Salim Kurla was known to them, had left the same morning with his wife and three children in a Fiat. They gave us the car’s registration number, colour and other description. As a routine response, we asked the Hyderabad Police officers, accompanying us as support staff, to broadcast the details over police wireless. Nothing further was left to be done at the spot.
Satish and I decided to leave for the Police Mess. As we were about to depart, the young boy, pointing to a two-wheeler parked in the open, right outside the house, said, “Uncle, yeh scooter unhi ka hai (This scooter is his).” Salim had left his scooter behind as he could not have possibly driven both his car and the two-wheeler. We paused for a moment and, out of sheer police instinct, decided to leave inspectors Tyagi and Pardesi behind.
Though it was most improbable, hypothetically there was still a slim chance that Salim might return to pick up his scooter. The inspectors and Sub-Inspector V Rao of Hyderabad Police stayed back close to the apartment building to keep watch, just in case our intuition was right.
On reaching my room in the Police Mess I had a quick shower before getting into my sleeping suit. But for some snacks eaten at the ACP’s office, I had gone without dinner. It was sleep that I needed the most, after a disappointing and distressing evening. It was already well past midnight. I switched off the room’s light and lay down.
Just as my head was about to hit the pillow, there was a knock on the door.
I thought it must be a kind soul from the mess staff who had come to ask if I needed something to eat. After switching on the light, I opened the door, only to find inspectors Raman Tyagi and Pardesi with a tall, well-built man, looking a bit familiar, sandwiched between them. Raman lost no time in informing me that the person with them was none other than Salim Kurla!
I quickly changed and went down to the mess lounge to speak to Raman, Pardesi and Salim. Meanwhile, Satish had been given the good news and he too joined us. Raman narrated the sequence of events leading to Salim’s arrest thus:
Soon after our departure from that house, CBI inspector Raman Tyagi along with Pardesi and Sub-Inspector Rao of Hyderabad Police waited patiently, keeping an eye on the scooter. They spotted an autorickshaw approach the area and stop at a distance. After a few minutes, the headlight was switched off and a tall figure emerged from the passenger seat of the three-wheeler. He stood tentatively, silhouetted against the faint light in the area, looked around a bit, and began to walk towards the building under the cover of darkness. The police officers hid behind the bushes on the side of the kaccha road leading up to the house.
As the tall figure came within their reach, the cops emerged from their hiding and surrounded him. They frisked him to make sure he wasn’t armed. On being asked who he was, he first said he was Firoze Ahmed Pasha. But when shown his photograph, he admitted that he was indeed Salim Kurla. As we had anticipated intuitively, he had come that late to pick up his scooter.
When asked about the whereabouts of his family, he refused to reveal any details. The officers slowly walked him to the autorickshaw that had ferried him to the place. The driver, Syed Yusuf, when questioned, informed them that he had picked up Salim from near Hotel Heritage, Sindhi Colony, Secunderabad.
Excerpted with permission from Dial D for Don, Neeraj Kumar, Penguin Books India.
