Within a few minutes, a plump woman in a burqa, a little over 5’2” feet walked into the hall and sat opposite us. So I had to introduce myself as a journalist from Inquilab, MiD DAY’s Urdu publication. If I were to introduce myself as a MiD DAY reporter, there was no telling how things would turn out. Just that morning, MiD DAY had carried a news report against Parkar.
I knew I would be talking about this interview with friends and colleagues for many years, but what twist it would take, I then had no idea. We’d already been warned against attempting to shoot or record anything. I sorely wanted to take in as much as I could, but I also did not want to piss anyone off by looking too curious. Parkar’s daughter answered the door and led us into a huge hall. Since we had Illias bhai with us, we were spared any probing questions. Gordon Hall is an old eight-storeyed building, guarded by assorted muscle-bound types. Now, Parkar lorded over this kingdom of organised chaos. In the early years, Agripada was known for “soda baatli” fights, where empty soft drink bottles would turn into improvised weapons between gangs over time, the baatlis had morphed into rampuris. Dawood had once held court over its grimy gallis.Ĭhhota Shakeel, Asif Baatla, Ahmed Kashmiri, and several others had once ruled here. As we crossed Agripada, I thought about the area’s long affair with the underworld. We’d both driven there on his Yamaha RX 100. I met him outside Gordon Hall, along with a colleague named Shiva Devnath, who was then working with Mumbai Mitra newspaper. I pushed Illias bhai for a meeting with her and we agreed on an August afternoon. And an interview with Parkar would be a total coup for a young journalist like me.
It was an exciting time for a newsroom in the early noughties.
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