Mousebite

by Ganesh Chaudhari

  This can also take care of another issue. If the NIA is looking into this & has managed to find Achhu’s cell number, it would be monitoring requests sent out by other government agencies to the cellular operators about that number. NIA is less likely to pay heed to two mobiles being tracked together. Any half brain could make out the area connection though. But I am counting on the case being low priority for the NIA. By the time I use this lead, they may not realize it. So I go ahead & make a formal request on groupings of 2 or more mobile phones moving together around Mira road station on the night of Achhu’s death. I request for the movements of such groups to be plotted across the map of the city. Yes, this can be done. Even though the world feels that India is lacking in will & infrastructure to fight the modern criminals, I know that we are taking baby steps in the direction. We are being run over now but it will change once we are through the ropes. Doing the ropes might take too long is not my focus right now. This request has been sent via the special pool privileges that I still enjoy so I expect it to be processed within the day. I decide to take a tea break at 8.30.

  People are ambling in as the office hours are about to begin. I get a few hellos as people pass by. I settle quickly at a table in the canteen. It is already abuzz with first-tea-of-the-day crowd. I have 3 guys sharing the table with me. I signal Shetty for a tea. A newspaper is already at the table. I skim through the pages. Nothing new there. The tea arrives shortly. As I sip on the steaming cup, Ulhas enters the canteen. On cue, the group on my table leaves. Ulhas is wearing his combination of a white shirt & khaki pants. I think they are the same ones that he wore yesterday. He has not shaved & his eyes look puffed.

  “What’s up bhai? You look like you came out of a night long meeting.” I rib him.

  “Something like that. I think I am up to something in the Achhu case.” He says. Looks like he too has found something.

  “Tell me. I too have put in a long shot. ” I enquire.

  “It is a long shot for me too. I would have the details by end of the day. Let us talk about it then.” He sips his tea. Shetty has already sent it for him.

  “”But first, tell me about yesterday.” His eyes settle on me. I take out a copy of the papers given to me by Sunil. Then I go about explaining the meeting to Ulhas. He does not interrupt me till I finish.

  “Why should we trust Anees?” He asks.

  “We can’t. But if there is any truth in these papers, it can help us immensely.” I share my take on Anees.

  “Have you told Khan Sir?” He rubs his eyes. He sure has been thinking hard.

  “Not yet. But I will tell him today.” This is typical Ulhas. He is straightforward about what he wants to know & puts it onto the table without packaging. He nods & pockets the sheets.

  “By the way, I got you an appointment with the home minister. Just 10 minutes. Two weeks from now. 4 in the afternoon at Mantralaya.” He lets me know. He is not going to take my transfer as it comes. He is going to work against it. Even without me. But he is gracious enough to keep me in the loop & let me assist him if I want to. We leave the canteen after another round of tea. Ulhas has to go to the Tata Memorial hospital as his parents’ annual checkup is scheduled today. He has to be there with them to meet the doctor. I see him off & return to the web forums.

  I sieve the forums for almost 2 hours. Not much is coming out of it. Meanwhile, I have found out that the DYSP is going to be at the office only by tomorrow due to a function at the Mantralaya & an impromptu departmental meeting called by the AGP. So it may not be before tomorrow that I get to meet him. I cross check all my pointers about Achhu before deciding that it would be better to wait up till I hear from the cellular operators. My mind seems saturated. It is time for a break. I take out my cell phone & dial Bhavana’s office number.

  “Forensics.” I hear her say. Though transmitted over the phone & converted to a digital signal, that voice refreshes me.

  “Hi Bhavana. Pandurang here.” I try to sound as casual as possible.

  “Hi. I was going to call you.” Looks like she’s in the (vicious) loop too. I don’t interrupt her.

  “I was visited by an NIA officer in the morning. He took over all the evidence about the Achhu case.” She is concerned but not excited.

  “That is why I called. This is no longer a case of the Mumbai police.” I want to keep it simple as my phone could still be monitored.

  “Ohh. ” She pauses. I take this as an indication that she is thinking this over. If she asks me for more information on the phone, it could get tricky.

  “Listen, what do you say about meeting over tea? I can come to your office if you like.” I hope she realizes that I am trying to get a one-on-one meeting to explain the situation.

  “Ok. 5 pm?”She replies.

  “Sure. I will be there.” I disconnect after saying bye.

  ***

  Sumit Patel was at his last stop. Since morning, he had been to 3 different places around Mumbai. Dressed in a pink half sleeved shirt & a gray colored flat front trouser, his clean shaven face made it easy to blend in the surroundings. His task at each of his stops had been simple & well guided. Simple because all he had to do was touch a button highlighting the spot on the Google Nexus 7 that had been given to him. Guided because the screen of the tablet showed Google maps. The map had simple icons indicating his current position & the spot where he should reach. He had been asked to touch the pin icon after it turned green. It had turned green as soon as he was close enough & he had touched it right. A small Wi-Fi icon had flashed at the top of the display every time & then a check mark had appeared against the pin. This meant he had done ok. He had repeated the process successfully on all three occasions.

  As he continued walking at a casual pace, the last location’s pin icon turned green. He touched the device & sure enough a check mark appeared next to the position. His job was done. Given the commonplace nature of tablets, nobody had bothered to give him a second look since morning. He was not very good at computers & was apprehensive when this task was assigned to him. But once he had used the tablet for a few days & gone through this particular routine, he was comfortable. The tablet’s touch interface was smooth & easy even for a middle aged bum like him.

  He didn’t care what was actually happening every time he touched the icon. He knew the places were marked for particular reasons. These places were going to see action, even terrorist activities. There could be deaths around here. Sumit took a deep breath again. He reminded himself that this was just business.

  The city might care for any deaths that may occur as a result of his acts, but the nation didn’t care beyond a couple of days. The maximum city spirit would make people continue with their daily hardships even when some of them were killed. Most importantly, he would not be alive to see any of this if his conscience awoke now. He checked the screen to confirm that all the four locations marked across the Mumbai map showed check marks against them. Unlike few other tablet models that he had seen, the Nexus 7 could not be used to make a phone call. He walked to the nearest Nana-Nani park. Parks like these were meant for the grandfathers & the grandmothers when they wanted to go for walks. This one was well kept with a circular walkway lined by with flowers on the sides. He found an empty bench. As it was still afternoon, the walkways in the park were deserted. After another deep breath he dialed from his cell phone.

  “Bahot achhe. Charo khane cheet.” Very good, perfectly blown on all fours. Exactly what he wanted to hear. The call was terminated from the other side. As Sumit extracted the SIM card from the phone & tore it to pieces, he decided to wait in the park till evening. He wondered how this park would look like if a bomb were to go off here. Will the people return for their walks the next day? One thing was certain. Whatever happened now, the people of this city were going to notice him. They had forgotten his father & were busy forgetting him. Not anymore.

  ***

  It was about time. About time for Hindustan to feel his wrath. Many believed it to be a religious wa
r for him & he allowed them to believe so if it got him increased cooperation. But it was much more than that. It was all that he cared about. It was all he wanted to do.

  He never called it India, Bharat or whatever. It was always Hindustan for him. Because however hard he had tried to make this his homeland, he had found that to be another attempt at fooling himself. He had once believed that Hindu-Muslim bhai bhai really meant something. He had even felt proud of his “nation” as a teenager. But as he grew, he had been crushed & destroyed by the reality of it all. He had lost his family, his friends & relatives to the brotherly Hindu-Muslim riots after the Babri masjid demolition. Most of them had been butchered right in front of his eyes. He was hiding in a large wooden box of fruits. His father had put him in it & showered him with onions, potatoes & tomatoes till he was completely covered. He had stayed in the box for over 12 hours. Through the planks of the box & the tomatoes, potatoes & onions, he had seen people being butchered like sheep. He had seen people whom he had known as neighbors killing other neighbors & being killed. He had heard the shouts of agony as people were hacked to death. He had also heard encouragements for killing each & everyone of his religion. The assailants had stabbed the fruit box with swords & knives to confirm that nobody was hiding in it. He did well to bear 3 slashes & not shout in pain.

  But the real pain followed afterwards. He was found unconscious by cops a day later. He was still inside the box. A cop had spotted his fingers in the fruits. Having no family, he was shifted to a public hospital for treatment. Given a metal bed with a thread bare, stinking mattress, he witnessed hell. The wards in the hospital were overcrowded with people. The riots had made it worse. People with lost limbs, gauged eyes howled in pain round the clock. Their kin wept with them during the day. The smell of puss, feces & vomit was constant too. Food was served twice a day. But that was after standing in a queue for at least two hours. The hospital was also doubling as a refugee camp. The doctors tried hard but they were outnumbered. His wounds healed but the mind was scarred forever. He didn’t get a chance to mourn his family. All his energy & focus was consumed by the tasks of keeping his bed to himself, finding food & not catching an infection. Using the toilet was another difficult task that he could achieve once in a couple of days. There was one toilet for the entire floor. It was choked up most of the time or without water. He stayed at the hospital for two weeks. His teenage ended there.

  After those harrowing days, he was asked to leave the hospital. Because his wounds were healed & there were people waiting for medical attention, the hospital almost threw him out. He walked 15 kilometers to what was left of his home. In fading light of the evening, he saw that the wooden windows & doors had been charred with petrol bombs. The furniture had been done away with by thieves, so was every notable item in the house. Kitchenware, electronic items (With their fittings), clothing & even the kitchen table top had been stripped off. His father’s scooter had also been torched. The ground floor shop & the first floor residence looked ghastly & ghostly in the moonlight. He found a shredded chatai. He slept in the cold with whatever rags that he could find. It was so cold that his tears seemed frozen. All alone, the world was lost to him.

  Next morning, he found money from a metal box that his mother had buried in the small garden behind the kitchen. He was hungry & had not dared to open the box in the night as he would have had to look after it in the night. The box had sufficient money but there was one more thing in it that changed his life forever. Written down in her mother’s handwriting were a phone number & just one name. Tabrezbhai.

  He remembered Tabrez as his distant maternal uncle. His mother always spoke of him reverentially. He took the number to a nearby phone booth & made a call to that number in Mumbai. He identified himself on the phone. It was Tabrezmamu on the line, the voice said. He was asked of his location & well being. He was asked what he went through & he was also asked to wait for a car by his house. Tabrezmamu was going to send someone over to pick him up. The car arrived right on time. He was taken to Mumbai, to his Tabrezmamu. Things moved swiftly after that. Tabrezmamu had found & brought the bodies of his mother, father & sister to Mumbai. They were cremated there. His father was a prudent man & Tabrezmamu’s clinical efficiency had resulted in settlement of a sizable insurance claim in weeks. The fund was so cleverly invested in his name that he could still rely on it today. He was admitted to one of the best schools in Mumbai. He was not told but he knew that the life in his native village was over for now. He would have to start it afresh with his Tabrezmamu in Mumbai. He was told that from now on, he was not alone. He was going to be another son to Tabrezmamu. No, to Tabrez Memon.

  It was going to be wonderful to repeat or even better what his father had achieved in Mumbai. Patel’s phone & the confirmatory emails that he had received after each of his location exercises meant that his operation was on track. Mumbai police had swung into action earlier than expected but had been distracted for a while by Patel. They would figure the whole thing eventually, but it would be too late. It would take them at least a few weeks (if they were allowed to pursue it) & he was going to finish the job in days.

  13

  The Conference

  “We have received credible inputs from this source before. There are sound security arrangements in major cities around the country to tackle terrorist threats.” The secretary to the national security advisor was a smart looking man in his early forties. He wore a navy blue blazer over a light blue shirt. The fine checkered tie went well with it. His spectacles occasionally reflected the light on him. He was seating upright in a chair. His speech was clear, with pauses that gave the listener enough time to grasp areas that he wanted to highlight.

  Khan could make out clear details over a video screen that was showing a live feed from Delhi. The screen was close to 2 meters in length. It was a Sony & offered excellent picture with clear audio. The feed was continuous, fluid too. At least 40 people were seated in this closed conference room with dimmed lighting. The chairs had been set up in 5 rows. Seating in the last row, Khan could feel immersed in the experience. At least the communication channels were improving. The function at the Mantralaya had ended half an hour ago. All of them had seen off the Information Secretary of Maharashtra. But his last day at the office had been followed up with a call for all DYSPs in Mumbai region & higher ranked officers to join the video conference. The conference was being handled from Delhi & every district police headquarter in India had tuned in on orders. Otherwise, Khan would have not have been invited.

  “But what bothers me is the description of this planned attack.” The secretary to the national security advisor continued.

  “Many of you assess descriptions of planned terrorist activities on a daily basis. I want to throw this for your analysis & I want you to take this seriously.” Khan wondered at what was coming his way. He didn’t have to wait.

  “The description that our source gave us goes like this.” The man on the screen picked up what looked like a printout & began reading.

  “We have terrorized the centers of Indian excesses with blood. That has not been enough. But this strike will resonate with every city in that country with an effect that is going to be felt in every home. It will be a clear warning that the Indian government & nation cannot protect their citizens from our fury. This time, there are no rules.” He put the paper away & stared intently at the camera as if trying to reach everyone who was watching.

  “This is all the source could get. The source may turn out to be wrong. But the question is, can this be true? Could an attack of this scale & reach be planned?” He stopped.

  “Mr.Baria, an attack of that scale would be very difficult to organize & execute. I am in touch with all the ATS heads around the country. Ground level intelligence has come with nothing to substantiate such an attack anywhere.” The Mumbai ATS chief spoke. He was the head of all the ATS units around the country too.

  “General threat targets have been put on alert nationally. Any other su
ggestions?” Mr.Baria asked from Delhi. Nobody spoke. The fact that such an attack was possible may have something to do with that.

  “Alright. This office has established a 24x7 helpline for any information that any of you would like to pass on. All of you are advised to be in a state of high alert till this threat passes. I would want daily reports from the state Police on this. Gentlemen, keep your eyes peeled.” The screen went blank after a nod from Baria.

  ***

  I am standing below Bhavna’s office. The street is buzzing with people as the evening rush to get back to their homes has begun. I called her a few minutes back to let her know that I am here. As I wait for her, I think about what to tell her & how much to reveal. She has been in the service for 2-3 years now. So she could have been in situations like this. It is unusual to find people with government jobs not being subjected to mental stress. Unlike the stress that involves solving a case, this stress is often the angst over their department’s flip-flops, red tape & outright favoritism. Most of my kind is exposed early to it. As early as the first day on the job. But as we work out of Mumbai, we get on with it. Because living in Mumbai means finding a solution. It could be a temporary fix, but we Mumbaikars take it. Work on it if required, but we fix it so that daily life goes on.

  As Bhavna has grown up in Mumbai with a father in the police department, I am counting on her to take it in her stride. It is not usual for people to take over your material, your observations & your deductions, but Mumbai & cop work is rarely usual. So she might already be over most of it. I hope so because I have seen people being crushed by it. The fighting types fight till they can; ones like me find ways to get around it but there are others who depress themselves out about the injustice of it. They don’t last long & I hope that Bhavna is not amongst them.