Our paper has been reporting on Bangalore's gangland murders these past couple of weeks. The murder of Narasimha Murthy, allegedly the kingpin of what is known as the 'coolie mafia', was the most brazen of those crimes, and took place in busy Chamarajpet.

A dozen men, led by a burly film financier called Kapali Ananda, flashed their choppers and hacked Nararasimha Murthy to death in full view of the neighbourhood's morning strollers. It was a bad gangster movie coming alive.
Looking at photos of Narasimha Murthy, you could well imagine how he must have terrorised the poor labourers at K R Market. He was tall, beefy, and wore a load of gold to proclaim to the world his riches (and ability to pay his way out of any police trouble). He and Kapali had been old rivals, and had vied for control of the money generated from K R Market, Bangalore's oldest, busiest and filthiest wholesale market.
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The death of Narasimha Murthy, whom the Tamil labourers called Poone ('cat', because he had cat's eyes), came soon after another City Market gangster, Gate Ganesha, had been done in by his own men. Ganesha had earned notoriety in the same squalid market setting, making enough money to be able to contest elections in his native Tamil Nadu. A rival lured his men, and persuaded them to kill him.

What exactly is the coolie mafia? Hundreds of lorries arrive at K R Market through the day, bringing fruits and vegetables from all over Karnataka and adjoining states, and poor labourers do the unloading. A coolie gets Rs 5 for each gunny bag he moves into a shop. The 'mafia' allows him to keep Rs 4, and pockets Rs 1. At least 30,000 bags are unloaded on an average, and the gang ruling the market collects Rs 30,000 a day from these labourers alone.

The don pays off his cronies, officiously called 'supervisors', and takes home a cool Rs 25,000 a day, which amounts to about Rs 7 lakh a month, and something like Rs 8 crore a year. The don also collects Rs 10 from each wayside vendor as protection money. With so much money rolling in, the gangsters are tempted to get into what they call the 'meter baddi' business. 'Baddi' is Kannada for interest, and 'meter baddi' refers to interest that mounts fast, perhaps like the fare on a rigged autorickshaw meter. Some venture into financing films as well.

All this can't thrive without the tacit support of the police, and whoever happens to be the politician reigning in the constituency. Narasimha Murthy reportedly owed allegiance to a Congress leader who had emerged as a leader from the same murky market world.

Behind these stories are the more human stories. The women in Narasimha Murthy's family told him it was inauspicious on that particular day for him to have a haircut, but he didn't heed their words. They are distraught, and convinced he died because he defied their religious beliefs. Kapali, who killed him, got his name from working at Kapali Bar, and selling tickets in black at Kapali cinema. And the boys caught in the gang wars have their own tales of misery and bravado to tell.

The Kannada film industry keeps cribbing it has no good scripts, and pays a ransom each time it buys remake rights from Tamil or Telugu. Any film-maker with any interest in human drama would find in K R Market enough material for a whole series ofu00a0 Godfather. Or Slumdog Millionaire, if you please.