here. Perhaps the brothers Anwar was talking about, the toughs, might have had a different mother.
He said, ‘I don’t think of them as my brothers.’ But then immediately he softened that. ‘The environment has made them what they are. They had to become thugs, to survive. I will tell you this story about the foolhardiness of my brothers. You’ve been reading in the papers recently about the don who’s become the new king of the Bombay underworld. Some time ago, when this don got a contract to kill someone in the locality, he came on a reconnaissance to our area. And – you wouldn’t believe – one of my brothers picked a fight with him.’
‘What sort of man did the don have to kill?’
‘The man the don had to kill was in the business of sending people to the Middle East – manpower export – and he must have cheated someone. But my brothers saw this don as someone intruding on their turf. They exchanged insults and abuse, my brothers and the don, and each side said they would see what the other did. My brother got an Ambassador car and they packed it with weapons. They were planning to attack the don’s area, but someone tipped the police off, and my brothers were caught. They were released in a couple of days. Someone here bailed them out.’
‘Your brothers have money, then?’
‘They make money and then they start gambling.’
‘You would say that they, too, are living on their nerves?’
‘They don’t have the mental make-up I have. If the occasionarises, they will give their lives without a thought. It’s the environment.’
In that talk of his thuggish brothers ready to give their lives there was, now, a kind of inverted pride, as when he had spoken of the fear his brothers inspired in the neighbours.
I asked him about the riots of 1984. People spoke of them as a fearful Bombay event, historical, a marker.
He seemed to blow at his milk, as if to cool it. But the milk wasn’t warm. That constant parting of his lips, that seeming expulsion of breath, was only a trick of the muscles of his thin face, part of the tremulousness of his face.
He said, That was when the will to fight came to me. I was in the final year of the matriculation. There is a Muslim cemetery near Marine Drive, and there is a day near the Ramadan period when it is necessary to visit that cemetery. A group from this area went. At two o’clock in the morning we were walking back home. Some of us were wearing skullcaps, Muslim caps. We passed a Shiv Sena stronghold. We were pelted with stones. We complained to some policemen. They didn’t listen. In fact, they followed us for two miles. They thought we were the troublemakers. That was the first sign we had of the riot. Before that night there had been no sign of any trouble. Actually, the real trouble was very far away, about 25 kilometres from here.’
It became hard in the milk bar to hear what Anwar was saying. Above the noise of traffic in the road, there were now querulous voices in the bar itself, Indian voices, specially edged to cut through most sounds of man and machine – above all, the rising and falling cicada sound of motor-car hooters.
Anwar said, ‘We returned to this area about three o’clock in the morning. Some of us were bleeding from the stones, and people asked us what had happened. I should tell you that on that night,
shab-e-baraat
, Muslims stay awake right through.
The next day I had forgotten about the incident. But when I went with a friend to a house near here, I found it full of weapons. That was the doing of one of the big dons. His men had stocked up, to retaliate. Soon after, firing began in the locality. There was curfew throughout the day, and then they banned gatherings of more than five people. In the colony itself – the area where he lived – ‘police infiltrated to check whether people had weapons.’
‘Did the presence of the police calm people down?’
‘I have no confidence in the police. I will tell you. You
He said, ‘I don’t think of them as my brothers.’ But then immediately he softened that. ‘The environment has made them what they are. They had to become thugs, to survive. I will tell you this story about the foolhardiness of my brothers. You’ve been reading in the papers recently about the don who’s become the new king of the Bombay underworld. Some time ago, when this don got a contract to kill someone in the locality, he came on a reconnaissance to our area. And – you wouldn’t believe – one of my brothers picked a fight with him.’
‘What sort of man did the don have to kill?’
‘The man the don had to kill was in the business of sending people to the Middle East – manpower export – and he must have cheated someone. But my brothers saw this don as someone intruding on their turf. They exchanged insults and abuse, my brothers and the don, and each side said they would see what the other did. My brother got an Ambassador car and they packed it with weapons. They were planning to attack the don’s area, but someone tipped the police off, and my brothers were caught. They were released in a couple of days. Someone here bailed them out.’
‘Your brothers have money, then?’
‘They make money and then they start gambling.’
‘You would say that they, too, are living on their nerves?’
‘They don’t have the mental make-up I have. If the occasionarises, they will give their lives without a thought. It’s the environment.’
In that talk of his thuggish brothers ready to give their lives there was, now, a kind of inverted pride, as when he had spoken of the fear his brothers inspired in the neighbours.
I asked him about the riots of 1984. People spoke of them as a fearful Bombay event, historical, a marker.
He seemed to blow at his milk, as if to cool it. But the milk wasn’t warm. That constant parting of his lips, that seeming expulsion of breath, was only a trick of the muscles of his thin face, part of the tremulousness of his face.
He said, That was when the will to fight came to me. I was in the final year of the matriculation. There is a Muslim cemetery near Marine Drive, and there is a day near the Ramadan period when it is necessary to visit that cemetery. A group from this area went. At two o’clock in the morning we were walking back home. Some of us were wearing skullcaps, Muslim caps. We passed a Shiv Sena stronghold. We were pelted with stones. We complained to some policemen. They didn’t listen. In fact, they followed us for two miles. They thought we were the troublemakers. That was the first sign we had of the riot. Before that night there had been no sign of any trouble. Actually, the real trouble was very far away, about 25 kilometres from here.’
It became hard in the milk bar to hear what Anwar was saying. Above the noise of traffic in the road, there were now querulous voices in the bar itself, Indian voices, specially edged to cut through most sounds of man and machine – above all, the rising and falling cicada sound of motor-car hooters.
Anwar said, ‘We returned to this area about three o’clock in the morning. Some of us were bleeding from the stones, and people asked us what had happened. I should tell you that on that night,
shab-e-baraat
, Muslims stay awake right through.
The next day I had forgotten about the incident. But when I went with a friend to a house near here, I found it full of weapons. That was the doing of one of the big dons. His men had stocked up, to retaliate. Soon after, firing began in the locality. There was curfew throughout the day, and then they banned gatherings of more than five people. In the colony itself – the area where he lived – ‘police infiltrated to check whether people had weapons.’
‘Did the presence of the police calm people down?’
‘I have no confidence in the police. I will tell you. You
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