by Amit Lodha
Ranjan called after some time.
‘Sir, no one in those cities.’
‘Okay, I’ll call you later,’ I said as I disconnected the phone.
It was as I had expected. Vijay and Horlicks were not novices. They wouldn’t have gone to any known person’s place to hide. It would not have been difficult for the police to track them down. I kept thinking about the various possibilities.
A couple of days later, my wife called me, ‘Chun (my pet name), the cable-wallah has come to set up the connection. And let me know if anyone is going to Patna. My stock of diapers for Aish will be exhausted soon,’ said Tanu.
I beamed with joy. Tanu had given me an excellent excuse to go home immediately. The Football World Cup was just a few days away. I thanked the inventors of cable TV. Those days, it was very popular. Dish or satellite TV had just arrived and the set-top box was decidedly more expensive than cable. Even the number of channels were rather limited. I would be able to see all the football matches live in Shekhpura on cable TV. So what if I couldn’t get bread?
I invited Kumar Sir to lunch. This was our first meal in our house. Kumar Sir was quite happy to meet Tanu and my kids. I told him about the soccer schedule, particularly Brazil’s fixtures. He reminded me of our game with Vijay. It was a ‘must-win’ situation for us.
14
‘Krazy Kiya Re’
‘You know, Amit is an IITian!’ some of my senior colleagues would declare with great pride. The fact that there were quite a few IITians who were doing very well in the IAS, IPS and other civil services did not help my cause at all.
I would start looking in the opposite direction to spare myself further embarrassment. How could I tell them that I had had no interest in academics when I was at IIT? That I did not know the ‘E’ of engineering?
To make up for my lacklustre performance at IIT, I started taking a great interest in computers and mobile telephony as an SP. In my last stint as a district SP in 2005, I had gone to Delhi to learn more about this field from the special cell of the Delhi Police. The special cell had a team of brilliant individuals of all ranks. They were aware of the latest international developments and had cracked many tricky cases. They acquainted me with the latest tool––call observation.
It was time to use this wonderful facility.
Call observation facility, or ‘parallel listening’, in common police parlance, is a simple but extremely effective weapon in the hands of the police. It enables the police to monitor any person’s phone. Every single call, incoming and outgoing, can be heard. It is as good as putting that individual’s phone in the hands of the police. Largely, this facility has been used by intelligence agencies to track down criminals or to listen in on the conversations of terrorists, mafia syndicates and so on. But as it happens so often, this facility has been misused too, sometimes for personal gain and political vendetta. The infamous Nira Radia tapes controversy is just one example, which led to accusations of misconduct by many senior journalists, politicians and corporate houses. The government is very particular about this facility, as any mala fide use can be a direct infringement on the constitutional rights of an Indian citizen.
In the state of Bihar, no less than the Home Secretary is authorized to sanction the use of the call observation facility by the police. Only police officers of the rank of SP or above can send a requisition to the Home Secretary. If the Home Secretary deems it fit, the mobile service provider will be directed to provide the facility to the officer concerned.
I called my personal secretary (PA), a rotund, balding person who had probably spent his entire life behind a typewriter and who was now equally adept at using a computer. The personal assistant or secretary is a unique creature in the bureaucratic jungle. He or she works tirelessly and seemingly enjoys typing reams of papers every day. Many of those papers are irrelevant and read by no one.
But every once in a while, a single letter can cause a lot of concern to a subordinate officer.
The PA is the eyes and ears of the SP, and his or her opinion can definitely influence the SP to some extent. All the subordinates keep the ‘PA Babu’ in good humour. Even the SP is wary of the PA lest they leak office secrets. Moreover, an unscrupulous PA can mar the reputation of the boss very easily.
‘Ram Babu, type a letter to the Home Secretary immediately. I need to fax it right now.’ Ram Babu had typed thousands of memos and orders, but that one requisition to the Home Secretary bewildered even him.
‘Huzoor, what kind of a request letter is this? What is “call observation facility”?’
‘Nothing, Ram Babu, don’t fret over these matters. Not of much consequence,’ I smiled at his ignorance, with a slight hint of arrogance, but more of relief that he did not know about this facility. If the SP’s PA didn’t know of it, then there was no chance of anyone else knowing about it. The chances were as remote as Andre Agassi having hair on his head.
The PA typed Vijay’s, Horlicks’s and some other important gang members’ numbers in one column. The adjacent column had my own official numbers, the phones on which I wanted to listen in on any conversations those two and others had. Instead of using Vijay’s and Horlicks’s real names, I deliberately wrote down some fictitious names and some other false case details. I did not want any leaks, naturally.
I dismissed Ram Babu and called the Home Secretary, Anil Amar, a career bureaucrat––an officer who had always had important postings throughout his tenure.
‘Sir, good afternoon. This is Amit from Shekhpura.’
Before I could say my next sentence, Amar cut me short.
‘Amit, I hope you are working seriously to finish Vijay and his gang. We have great expectations from you. It was I who suggested your name for Shekhpura considering your past performance.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, slightly mockingly. I knew I was the fall guy.
‘Sir, I have just sent you a letter requesting the call observation facility. Please pass an order urgently.’
The Home Secretary was taken aback.
‘Sir, the sooner you sanction the facility, the sooner we can arrest Vijay,’ I said politely but firmly.
The savvy officer that he was, Amar immediately sanctioned the facility.
I saved Vijay’s and Horlicks’s numbers in my official mobile phone. I knew their names would keep ringing in my head till I arrested them.
After a few hours, I saw a number flashing on my mobile screen. It was Vijay Samrat calling someone. I pressed the green button on the mobile to start the parallel listening. The game was on now. Advantage Amit Lodha.
‘Arre, bhai, kaisan ho? Ki haal chaal hai? (Hey brother, how are you)? The dogs must be looking for me. But can dogs ever hunt a lion? Haha! Let them run around. The lion will come out only when it wishes to. After all, he is the king of the jungle. Vijay Samrat is the king. Haha!’ said a boastful Vijay, absolutely intoxicated with his power and brute authority.
‘Sahib, still, be careful. There’s police all around,’ said a meek voice. Vijay disconnected.
I immediately sent an email to BSNL, the service Vijay was using, and asked for the call records. When the details came in, I found that Vijay had called one Sujit Kumar. He was a simple shopkeeper with no criminal record. Apparently, Vijay had called him to get a general feel of the situation in Shekhpura. He liked to talk to commoners once in a while. It imposed his rule over them and added to his aura. The tower location showed that Vijay had moved to Hazaribagh.
A lion never leaves his territory, only mice do. For all his bravado, Vijay was clearly jittery, even if a little bit. That was good news.
Horlicks’s mobile was switched off. I got a little worried. Did I have a number that was not Horlicks’s? Or did he know about my surveillance plans? I hoped for the best and went home.
I was woken up by the phone ringing loudly. I groggily looked around for my mobile phone.
‘Shh, shh, what are you doing? I had put Aish to sleep with such difficulty. You have woken her
up again,’ said Tanu, a little angry.
The sound of the phone was drowned out as the baby started wailing. I saw the screen blinking between the sheets and grabbed it. The screen flashed Horlicks’s name. The mobile clock indicated it was 4.10 a.m. I felt a thrill of excitement, yet cursed Horlicks. These damned villagers started their day quite early, unlike us city folk.
‘Kaisi ho jaaneman, meri bulbul (How are you my love, my sweetheart)? I have been missing you so much,’ crooned Horlicks. I didn’t know a dreaded sharpshooter could be such a hopeless romantic.
‘I also miss you so much, darling. I am waiting for you to come soon,’ said a female voice, sounding very seductive.
‘Jaanu, I’ll come. I’m just taking it easy. These policemen must be sniffing after me like a pack of hounds. Aur suno (And listen). You look exactly like Aishwarya Rai from the song “Kraji Kiya Re”!’
‘Dhatt, I am even more beautiful than Aishwarya Rai!’
Their romantic gibberish went on for a good twenty minutes. I could not sleep a wink after listening to that. Surprisingly, our own Aish had blissfully gone back to sleep and Avi had also slept through the night. I waited for the morning. I could barely contain myself till the Airtel office opened.
I got the call details of Horlicks’s number by 10.40 a.m. From the conversations I had discovered that the woman’s name was Sulekha Devi and she was in Mahawat village, Shekhpura.
I called Ranjan to my home immediately. I pushed the printout of the call details towards him. ‘Do you recognize any of these numbers? Can you analyse the call records?’ I asked him.
Ranjan looked at me sheepishly and said, ‘Sir, I am sorry, but I can’t understand anything. I am seeing a call record for the first time.’
I could understand. In those days, subordinate policemen, particularly those working in rural areas, did not have much knowledge of mobile phone tracking. Even a simple thing like a call record was given by the service provider only to the SP or an officer authorized by the SP.
‘Okay, forget it. Tell me, who is Sulekha Devi? She lives in Mahawat village, apparently. It is Horlicks’s village too.’
‘Oh, Sulekha Devi! She is Horlicks’s bhabhi.’
‘Are you serious? Is he having an affair with his own bhabhi?’
‘Sir, I am not surprised at all. These things are quite common in rural areas. I have also heard that everything is not okay in Horlicks’s marriage.’
‘Any chance of him coming back to Mahawat?’
I was just hopeful that Horlicks would visit her. After all, many men have fallen because of their dangerous liaisons. History is replete with such examples.
‘Not a chance, sir. He knows that the police are looking for him.’
‘What about his wife, Shanti Devi? Where is she?’
‘Sir, she and her kids have also been missing after the massacre. We have no idea of their whereabouts, though Raju tried his best.’
It was natural for Shanti Devi to go underground. The Shekhpura police had been raiding their house and other relatives’ places regularly.
Just a few hours later, Horlicks’s number flashed on my screen again.
‘Baal butroon kaisan hai (How are the kids)? How are Chintoo and Rani doing? I am sure Chintoo must be studying hard. Have you started making him read the newspapers? Get him some Angrezi newspaper; he has to clear the civil services exams. He should become an IPS officer,’ said Horlicks.
‘Haan, padha rahein hain (Yes, I am making them study). Chintoo is studying hard. He is reading the newspaper regularly. You could ask about my well-being too,’ replied Shanti Devi in an irritated tone.
I just could not believe it. A hardcore criminal, a murderer, wanted his son to become a police officer!
The call was short and terse. I guess Horlicks was more interested in talking to his girlfriend than to his wife.
I could have interrogated Sulekha and practically everyone who was in touch with Vijay and Horlicks, but decided against it. I did not want to alert Vijay and Horlicks at all. I just needed to bide my time, and I would definitely find out their exact hiding place.
I put on the television to kill some time while Tanu nursed Aish. On one of the music channels, I saw Aishwarya Rai sashaying to the foot-tapping number ‘Krazy Kiya Re’. It was the same song Horlicks had mentioned to his bhabhi.
Seeing the song on screen suddenly prompted me to say, ‘Tanu, don’t you think you have put on weight, particularly around your waist?’
Tanu remained quiet for a moment.
‘Why don’t you try giving birth to a baby? Let us see how well-maintained you remain after delivery, that too a C-section,’ she retorted.
I knew I was being a jerk. I switched off the TV and lay spreadeagled on the bed. Deep down in my heart, I loved my wife madly. And she knew it.
After a few hours, Vijay’s name appeared on my phone screen. I activated the call observation.
‘Vijay, I hope you are safe and sound. Now listen carefully. The new SP is very intelligent. He is some engineer from some IIT-YIT. I’m warning you. Switch off your mobile phone,’ said a stern, dignified voice.
‘Netaji, thank you for your concern. I have seen so many SPs come and go. The present SP is a kid, bachcha hai. I can handle him easily,’ retorted a confident Vijay Samrat.
‘I am warning you. Switch off your phone. I don’t know what exactly the SP is doing, but I have received information that mobile phones can be tracked. He does not believe in conventional policing. It makes me suspect strongly that he must be using some new technique to catch you.’
The voice went silent.
Vijay wondered how the police could track him using his mobile phone. He was constantly on the move. Nobody knew about his whereabouts, not even his most trusted lieutenants, not even Horlicks. He would never be caught. After all, he was the king; so what if he was in exile right now? But somehow, his heart was beating faster. He was sweating too. He shrugged and cursed the scorching heat.
15
‘Dekhte Hain’
‘Sir, ADG Sir wants to talk to you,’ said my PA. It was the ADG A.K. Prasad. He was known as HMV––His Master’s Voice––as he was an absolute ‘yes’ man.
‘Lodha, how’s it going? The boss is monitoring your performance on a daily basis. I have told him that you are working hard. You know you are not in his good books, but I am trying to get your career back on track,’ Prasad said.
I knew very well that it was Prasad who was instrumental in my not being in the ‘good books’. Prasad had once called me to get one of his nephews posted as the SHO of an important police station in Nalanda. Like any young, inexperienced IPS officer, I had blurted out at the time, ‘Sir, with all due respect, Rakesh Kumar is highly inefficient. I can’t post him as an SHO.’
There had been a deathly silence on the other end of the line. After a few seconds, probably after he had swallowed his ego, Prasad had banged the phone down. He would remember this ignominy for a long time.
I did not think twice about the incident at the time, but after some years of experience, I realized that I was right in my thinking but wrong in my approach.
Now, I would listen to a senior officer or a politician and just say, ‘Sir, dekhte hain (Sir, I’ll see).’ That is the best way to ward off any unjustified demand.
‘There’s no need to be Sunny Deol,’ is what IG HQ, Lima Inchen, a genial Naga, had told me during my early days as an SP. ‘Just listen to people, be it politicians or seniors. Be polite; no need to be unnecessarily aggressive. These altercations look good only in movies. Finally, be practical. There are certain requests that are genuine, so accede to them. And wherever your conscience pricks you, simply put your foot down. Soon, you will build a reputation. Things will be smooth for you after that.’
I could not have got better advice, that too, during my early years in the service. Later on, many MLAs, with whom I had had spats earlier because of my brazen attitude, confided that at times, they knew they had made unj
ust demands. But they had no option. People would camp in their offices asking them to call me, the SHO or other officers for favours. As elected representatives, they were always answerable to the public. It did not matter if there was no electricity or the roads were in a pitiable condition in their constituency. What mattered to the public was how powerful the local MPs, and particularly the MLAs, were in influencing the SP or the DM to favour them for their own personal benefit.
‘SP Sahib, hum kya karein (SP Sir, what do we do)? A politician’s job is very difficult. Everyone has great expectations from us, even if they have not voted for us in the election. People camp in our office. Outside our residence. Even when we know that we’re making an unreasonable demand, we have to call you,’ a local MLA had once explained to me earnestly. ‘Sometimes, due to immense pressure, we even have to see you personally. Earlier, you used to bluntly say to our face that you won’t listen to us. This caused us a lot of embarrassment.’
‘Yeah, I understand,’ I said with a wry smile.
‘But nowadays, your attitude is much better. You patiently listen to our demands and nod. And the best one-liner is––dekhte hain. That solves our problems. It’s a win-win situation for both of us. We fulfil our obligations and you take a decision you deem right, but later.’
I had learnt these lessons in diplomacy quite early. I developed a reputation for being a polite, yet no-nonsense officer. Many times, in fact, an MLA or a politician’s request turned out to be genuine. It was just that a regular person was too scared to meet the SP directly. So he would approach the MLA to meet us and put up his point. Sometimes, we vilify our politicians too much. It is a few of our own seniors who are more difficult to handle.
Now I wish I had chosen my words carefully in dealing with ADG Prasad during my initial days. He harboured a grudge against me. I really don’t know if it would have made any difference. I remembered my first meeting with him.
