Sunday Snippets
By Venkatesh Raghavan
Memories of Don Hussein Ustara
As my mind strayed down memory lane, I recalled how I became familiar with underworld don Hussein ‘Ustara’. A story of mine that appeared in the Free Press Journal got replicated in another newspaper. ‘Ustara’ took notice of it and started screaming at the young journalist and threatened him with dire consequences.
The journalist finally phoned me up and I asked him to give me Ustara’s number, stating I will handle it. It was late evening on a weekday, when I called up the don. “Hussein Ustara hai kya?” (Is it Hussein Ustara?) A sharp response came, “Aap tameez se pesh aao. Mhuje Naam se bulao.” (Show respect to me. Call me by my proper name.) I politely told him in Hindi, “I would like to know your full name. I have no intention of becoming disrespectful.”
From then on we became good acquaintances. I visited Hussein Sheikh (his real name) at his office at Jamlimohalla, South Mumbai. He insisted on treating me to mausambi juice. After a few meetings, I told him “Hussein bhai, humare liye tho chai hi kaafi hai” (I would like to have only tea). It somehow weighed on me that fruit juice being somewhat expensive could be regarded as an obligation. We caught on like a house on fire.
He had a continuing stint of enmity with underworld don Dawood Ibrahim. The don was never alone. He used to be surrounded by a group of people who were in the gold smuggling trade. I spent long evenings with the don’s group. They regaled me with stories of the yesteryears that dotted around the rivalry between gangs. One such story was about how Dawood’s close aide Chhota Shakeel fell into trouble with their gang’s strongman Mehmood Kaliya. The latter inflicted a stab wound on Shakeel’s butt. Shakeel sustained a severe injury on that occasion. He, however, escaped with his life to recover later before fleeing to foreign soil to join his boss Dawood.
As the frequency of our meetings increased, Hussein was the source of many special stories that eluded other newspapers. I remember a meeting I had with his henchmen inside a nearby durg. The close aide told me in chaste Urdu, “We all carry our weapons with us. We are good at using the razor just like you are skilled in using your pen.” This idea was reaffirmed to me by the manager of our local Irani joint Ali Akbar. He introduced me in jest to his business colleague, “Yeh hai Venkat Bhai. Kalam se maarne wala bhai.” (This is don Venkat. He is a don who kills with his pen.)
Several weeks later, I was in for a rude shock. When I rang up police control on a routine night call, I was informed that Hussein Ustara was shot dead by unknown assailants. I actually disbelieved it at first. I rang him on his mobile number and a brisque cop voice responded, telling me that he was gunned down.
Later, I took pains to carry out a detailed obituary of the don and was assisted by his brother Ismail Sheikh. My friendship and interactions with Ismail bhai too was a very memorable experience. In honour of our long-standing relationship, I quote a Urdu sher he recited in my presence: “Maana ki tumhare nazaron me kuch bhi nahi hum; Magar jara un se pucho jinhe haazil nahi hum.” In English, it translates, “Agreed that I am nothing in your sight, But kindly inquire with those who failed to beget me.”
